The Kingdom of Muenster
by G12G4
Summary: During the investigation of a mine explosion in Wales, Agent M (commonly known as Mina Moore) discovers a symbol that leads her, Bond (Lord Roger Norbert), Quentin, and Dinah, into the heart of an international deadly cult. 1887
1. Chapter 1

_Feb. 19, 1887_

 _Cwtch, Wales_

I gently rested my gloved hand in the rough paw proffered me as I descended the steps of the little black coach onto the deeply rutted earth of the Colliery. "Bore da, constable," I said, nodding toward the large, bearded man who had guided me down the steps.

"Bore da, Miss Moore," he answered with a slight touch to the brim of his bowler hat. "Thank you for coming so quickly. Inspector Brady speaks highly of you. How was your journey?"

"As well as might be expected for this time of year. How does the younger Mr. Brady fare?" The constable's countenance fell. I knew, without another word from the rotund man what was meant - my inference was quickly confirmed.

"Not well, I'm afraid."

"No, I suppose given the circumstances he wouldn't be." My mind readily returned to the memory of the pale, skeletal young man with the flaming red and nervous mein that manifested in a constant twitching of his head as though afraid at any moment something might spring from thin air to bring havoc upon him. I had come to be acquainted with only a few months past through the mechanations of our mutual friend, Mr. Bond. "I shall have to call on Inspector Brady and thank him for the recommendation." I unhooked my umbrella from my arm and pointed it forward, I suppose we should be getting to the mine before we waste anymore daylight."

"Very good," the aging lawman replied. "If you'll just follow me. It's only just by that rise."

"In the report I received I had been given to know there were six killed in the explosion?" I inquired as we walked down the dusty path toward the large stone building that served temporary duty as both staging place and morgue.

"I'm sorry to say the number has increased since we wrote you. The total is now forty dead," the constable answered, his eyes cast toward the ground. We were fortunate though. Had it occurred at any time other than shift change we might've lost hundreds."

"Yes, quite fortunate indeed. That seems a rather strange time for an explosion," I probed. "Will I be able to see the site of the explosion?"

"It'd be a rather big risk. The winding gear was badly damaged by the blast. I don't think it'd be safe for a lady."

"I'll be the determiner of that," came my haughty retort. When I had first begun my career as a spy in earnest I had attempted to take such talk as mere chivalrous concern; but after so many years it quite irritated me, more often causing needless delays in my investigations. "But first let's have a look at the bodies, shall we?" The constable conveyed me through the main door, his look matching perfectly my own annoyance.

Inside the building I was greeted by the grisly sight of forty men, their bodies blackened and disfigured from the explosion, lying on white sheets in lines across the floor. I pulled on a pair of kid gloves and began my inspection. "Have all the men been identified?" I asked, squatting beside the corpse of what must have once been a rather young man, a child really.

"Most of them," answered the Constable, "but for a few closest to the blast. We only just got them out a few hours ago. They're over in that corner." He gestured with his finger to a few sets of badly charred remains, "The poor souls."

"Poor indeed," I murmured, standing up. I strolled over to the corner where the final men lay. The final corpse was less a man and more a skull with an assemblage of parts conjectured to have belonged to him lying beneath it. At a glance I knew at least one of these parts to be incorrectly attributed, but it was the skull, so different in form from its brethren, which most arrested my attention. It was a heavy, square thing with thick, high cheekbones that almost seemed to jut out from below the eye sockets. The jawbones were wide and set at almost right angles from the short, wide, square chin. I pulled a wooden probe from my bag kneeling down next to the skull, prodding it gently with a wooden probe. "Curious," I said to know one but myself as I set the probe so that it sat on the tip of the nasal bone, forming almost a straight line with the bulbs of the forehead. I rested the probe along the line that ran from the forehead to the back of the skull, noting the sharp diagonal line it formed, "Curious indeed." I stood, "Constable, where there any Germans employed by the colliery?"

"Germans?" the confounded man repeated, "none that I am aware of!"

"Might you please make an inquiry to the foreman for me regarding the subject?" I asked.

"As you wish, Miss Moore." It was clear his irritation had not yet wholly subsided, but this was neither here nor there so long as he proved a capable assistant, as I was certain he would for he should wish to bring an end to this case as quickly as possible. Cwtch had little to recommend itself to the rest of the world beyond the colliery - an extended closure of the mine would bring economic disaster to the town such that it might not be able to recover.

I shifted, gaining a better vantage of the corpse. Noticing something strange on one of the hands - the left which I believed original to the man, as opposed to the right which was visibly more gracile and at least an inch shorter - I took my probe and gently pried the ragged remains of the fingers open. The backs of the digits had been largely destroyed, two, including the thumb, were wholly absent but the inner tips of the remaining three were tinted a deep crimson, made pale from the dust that coated the body. I stood and very suddenly, as though very suddenly assaulted by an invisible force, assumed the posture of one using their arms to shield their face. Without moving my arms I looked at how my hands had instinctually positioned themselves. The sides of both hands were pointed outward, leading with the little finger the others following behind in a neat row with the thumb protectively aligned beside the inward facing side. This position would not explain the injuries I was seeing. If he had shielded his face in this manner the outer side of the hand should show the worst of the damage with the palms and backs similarly burned yet it was the backs which appeared to have borne the brunt of the blast. The sides of the fingers should be in the best condition, not the pads.

I turned my palms inward to replicate the damage to the backs... no that was no good either. The fingers and thumb curled inward like a fist. I repeated the motion more quickly just to be certain only to yield the same results. The pads would have been protected, but so would the backs of the upper two joints on each finger. However, such was not the case. And to further the trouble was the issue of the thumb which, in both positions, was largely protected by the remainder of the hand. It would figure the mind would instinctively protect that joint which separated us from the lower animals at the sacrifice of all other digits. I glanced at the orphan arm for confirmation of my theory and found it to be just as I conjectured. The little finger and corresponding side had bourne the brunt of the blast and had thus ceased to exist. The knuckles and heel of the hand had taken the remainder, the former showing the white of bone while the latter had lost a good portion of flesh. The thumb, however, but for the very right edge of the tip, was wholly preserved. I lowered my hands to my sides and ever so slowly turned my hands, fingers spread wide, so that the backs faced the imaginary inferno. He had not been caught off guard by the blast - the position was far too unnatural. In my mind I saw the man in my place, standing exultant, awaiting that which he had created to flow over him.

I turned to see the Constable regarding my weird reverie with a rather singular expression. "Well?" I asked, "What did the foreman have to say?"

The lawman recalled himself, "Joe said he's never even met a German, let alone hired one. What's all this talk of Germans about anyhow?"

"Merely a hunch, Mr. Davies. But, until I am certain, if anyone were to ask, please tell them only thirty-nine men were lost in the explosion," I said, removing my gloves and placing them back into my bag. "I believe it is time I saw the place where the explosion took place."

"Miss Moore, I really must object-"

"Your objection is noted, Constable. But if I am to offer any tangible assistance on this case I must be allowed to go into the mine. I would prefer to think you did not request the assistance of the secret service to waste our time."

"No, ma'am. I do apologize." The mention of his request to the secret service had the immediate effect of rendering Constable Davies quite contrite.

"It is no matter. Now please do take me to the mine, if you would Mr. Davies." I turned to another officer who was watching the scene, "And for Heaven's sake, please put the right arm with the third corpse from the left where it belongs!"

* * *

As we picked our way through the desolated mine I found myself dearly wishing I had heeded the Constable's suggestion. Progress was slow and frequently impeded by fallen rock and destroyed track. Careful to keep my lantern before me I hoisted myself over a beam that diagonally bisected the entryway into the lower tunnels.

"We found the final bodies down that tunnel," Constable Davies called out from behind me, his voice uneven as he attempted to negotiate the complicated terrain. "It gets a bit tight further down!"

He was in no way exaggerating the situation, but for a small hole where the beams had fallen in such a way as to from something of a tent the entire passageway was blocked. The Constable appeared by my side, "Huh! It appears there's been some subsidence since last night. I'm sorry Miss, but it appears we'll not be able to see the site of the blast until they are able to clear this mess out."

"And when do you suppose that would be?"

"A week at most. They'll want to shore up the support beams first, or else the whole tunnel's liable to collapse on them. No sense digging your own grave."

"A week! I do apologize sir, but I would prefer not to wait so long. Important evidence might be destroyed or lost in that time." I ran the lantern across the hole formed by the beams. It was wider than is was tall by almost a foot. I poked my arm, lantern dangling, through the opening and peered inside. The tunnel on the other side of the hole appeared to be quite clear. I put my head through to my shoulders and looked about the tunnel. I could hear the drip of water echoing from somewhere within. From down deep within rocks clattered to the floor and rolled down an invisible path. I shifted somewhat, my shoulders scraping against the sides of the hole. I backed out, trailed by my lantern. "If you would, please hold this." I said, thrusting the lantern into the confounded man's beefy hands. He took it, staring in confusion as I once more approached the hole, sticking both my hands through this time.

"Miss Moore, what are you doing?" Davies finally mustered.

I turned my head back toward him, "The hole may not be large enough for you, but I believe I can fit through it."

"But if anything happens to you it will be a week before any help might be able to get through!"

"I am well aware of the dangers, Mr. Davies. Now, if you will excuse me." I squirmed my way through the tight space, catching myself in a most ingracious manner by my hands and using them to walk myself out, upside down, until finally my feet had been drug out. As awkward as Mr. Davies view must have been, I was eternally glad he was on the other side of the wall and not present to witness my skirt falling over my head, causing me to lose my bearings and topple over.

"Miss Moore, are you alright?" the concerned voice called from the beam of light that had previously been the hole.

"All is well Mr. Davies," I called back, righting myself. By habit I straightened my dress, finger catching a band of lace, torn loose by my careless treatment. "The only harm done was to my dress and that will be easily mended. Please pass me the lantern, if you would." The lantern and large hand holding it passed through the diminutive portal casting the tunnel in a pool of pale light. I took it and held it out to examine the tunnel which proved to be as clear as I could have realistically hoped, though, at least passable. "Thank you Mr. Davies. I shouldn't be long." I said hopefully, though I knew the herculean task before me would render that promise unforgivably false.

I picked my way through what had formerly been tunnels, twice having to force myself through spaces of prohibitive size and questionable integrity. A drip of water splashed onto my head, I looked up just in time for another drop to land squarely between my eyes. Lifting my lantern I observed a crack in the bedrock above me - a discouraging sign to say the very least. There was little chance of the crack sealing itself. If the ceiling did not give way on its own, it would be rendered inaccessible by flooding. Behind I heard the sound of streams of dust and rock cascading from the ceiling. I quickened my pace for I harbored no special desire to be trapped in this tunnel for a week (and that if I were lucky!). I felt a few pebbles fall from above onto the top of my head. I sidestepped as a shower of rock debris rained down where I had just stood. Taking another step I felt a strange, soft object below my foot. It slid from beneath my heel, or I from it, causing me to stagger into the wall. Vengefully, I turned my lantern on the offending object, only to find it was not a rock but rather the German's missing arm. I jumped back in surprise... landing directly on the loose stone that had only a moment ago assaulted me.

I slid down next to the limb with a loud acclamation of surprise, yet somehow I had managed to hold my lantern aloft before me through the fall. Now it lit the wall opposite me, casting an eerie glow on the menacing face of a sheep staring directly at me. I quickly scooted back, my hand landing on the arm causing me to once more cry out in shock as I yanked my hand from the grotesque object. Standing up, I lifted my lantern to the wall where I had seen the image of the creature. Sure enough it was a sheep, expertly drawn in red in the center of a giant circle bisected strangely by three lines in the shape of, what appeared to be to my eyes, a giant letter "A". Above the low horizontal bar of the "A" on the outer sides of the triangle which housed the sheep's head where the letters "K" and "M" on the right and left, respectively. Above the circle was written, in bold capitalized letters: ECCE SANGUINEM AGNI.


	2. Chapter 2

I slid my way through the small hole in the rubble once more with the aid of Constable Davies. As I brushed the filth of my dress (a Sisyphyan endeavor if ever there was) it seemed Mr. Davies could no longer contain his curiosity for he blurted out, "Were you able to find anything?" before I had even the chance to acknowledge his assistance.

"I believe I was able to find the site of the explosion, though the actual place where it occurred is entirely buried. I did notice some interesting graffiti on the wall - does this symbol hold any meaning to you?" I asked, producing a piece of paper upon which I had copied the ominous symbol.

The Constable took the sheet and held it close to his his, tilting it this was and that as if hoping another angle would suddenly reveal its meaning to him. "Well, the words at the top aren't Welsh, I can tell you that for nothing."

"No, I didn't think so. I'm not completely certain, but they appear to be Latin."

"Well, I can't help you there! I wouldn't know Latin from Greek."Finally, he returned the paper to me, "Can't say I've ever seen it before, but if the writing is Latin, as you say, it's probably one of them Catholic boys, there's one of their churches only five miles down the way."

"Yes, I saw it from the coach when I came in."

"Probably something about his sweetheart, we have a fair number of girls these parts named Agnus - that means lamb to my recollection and it would fit with the "A" and the sheep, the other two letters must be the rest of her monogram. The poor girl! I hope her sweetheart wasn't in the tunnel when it went up."

"That could be it," but I doubted it. He had not seen the image as it was on the wall. Though my rendering was a fair likeness there was an intensity I could not capture, something which informed me this was not simply a besotted lover's tribute - but nameless such sensations were lost on the Constable who could not bear witness to the original. And perhaps he was correct and it had only been a trick of the light, the searing stench of burnt horseflesh and human hair, of hot blood spilled only the cold damp walls and floors - the scent of iron mingled with the indescribable smell of coal - of limbs never to be united with their owners, that led me to ascribe malice to the picture. But there was still the greater strangeness of time of the explosion: why during shift change of all times? I had never known a miner to work beyond the whistle. As an acquaintance of mine who had assisted me in the corruption case I had investigated regarding a coal mine just south of Lancashire last year had said, "Why should I trouble myself? The rock's not goin' anywhere." This was not even considering the strange matter of the German. I desperately needed to clear my head, but that was not a luxury I would yet be afforded. I squinted as we emerged into the bright light of the midday sun.

"Constable Davis!" a young man hailed us from below the lip of mine. "Is that Miss Moore with you?"

"It is, Joe." the Constable answered as we half slid, half walked down the loose stone of the entry. "Miss Moore this is the mine's foreman, Joe Evans."

"It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr. Evans."

"The pleasure is mine, though I wish it were under more felicitous circumstances." Mr. Evans pressed my hand in his own. He was a man of his mid-forties with the broadshouldered muscular build of one who has spent his career swinging a pickax in the mines. Still, his features were handsome for his age, if common and slightly irregular from injury. I noticed he was missing a canine tooth on the upper left of his jaw, at least, it had appeared to be the canine, perhaps the second incisor...? This missing feature arrested my attention far more than his eyes which should have held my gaze, but I only just noted they were of a sparkling azure shade before my gaze returned to his mouth waiting for it to open once more that I might be certain which tooth it was that he lacked. "I've just received a letter from Officer Brady," It was his second incisor that was missing, his teeth were just so offset as to be initially deceptive. "It seems the young Mr. Brady has taken a bad turn and his father requests your presence at once."

"Oh dear. I do apologize Constable, would you be able to spare me for a few hours?" I knew the answer without asking, the question was a mere formality. Concern for the young man was written all over the lawman's face.

"Of course."

"Thank you. Please excuse me." I dipped my head and followed Mr. Evans down the hill to where a coach awaited.

* * *

"What happened?" I demanded as the elder Mr. Brady greeted me at the door, sparing not a moment for formalities he shepherded me into the house and down the hall.

"One of the servants left a newspaper lying about."

"Oh hell's bells and buckets of blood!" I cursed quietly as we turned a corner. "Where is he?"

"The dining room." his father answered, though I needn't have asked for I could hear the grunts as loud as any scream. His mother stood outside the door wringing a handkerchief in her knobby hands. Her eyes staring helplessly at the closed door. Mr. Brady threw the door open before me.

For a moment my ears were filled with the unintelligible gruntings with no clear sight of whom the were emanating. Then I caught sight of him: his tall spare form sat, rocking slightly back and forth, squeezed in the corner formed by the wall and a china cabinet. His hands were smashed against his ears causing his short, bright red hair to stand askance around the digits - not that such a measure would have any effect in the slightest. The fingers were dug so deep I could see crescents of blood forming on his scalp.

"Paul!" I cried uselessly, rushing to his side. "Paul!" I pried his hands from his ears.

"It's eyes! It's eyes! They're bleeding!" he cried, attempting to force his hands, balled into tight fists, back to his head. "Jeremy! Jeremy! He's got the dynamite! What's going on? It's all gone wrong! Run Paul! Run! What is it Jeremy? Run!" I lost hold of one and before I could regain control of it watched in horror as he began to pummel himself about the head.

"Paul! It's me! It's Mina!" I fought his arms down.

He stared at me with vacant eyes, body suddenly still, in a voice not his own he proclaimed, "Ecce sanguinem agni!" Then he started to scream. His arms broke from my grasp and began to beat at his skull as if to dash it to bits.

"Paul!" I cried. I threw my arms around him in a tight embrace. I could feel his limbs struggling against my body. "Paul. Paul. Come back to me." I whispered, stroking his flaming red hair. I kissed his forehead, "Come back to me, Paul." Finally, I felt his body slacken, his arms slid around my form, gripping my body like a lifeline. We remained in that manner for almost ten minutes before his arms slid down to his sides.

"Mina?" he asked. I nodded my head. In a flash his arms were thrown tightly around me in a wild embrace.

I gently extricated myself from him, "Come now, my fiance will be jealous if you keep this up." I teased the boy with a smile he nodded his head as if he understood though I knew he did not. I took a piece of paper and pen from my bag.

 _Were you back in the mine again?_ I wrote. I turned the notebook to him so he could read it, he nodded his head. _What did you see? What eyes? You mentioned them once before._ Suddenly Paul's eyes grew distant again. He grab the pen and paper and hurled himself at the dining room table where he leaned his entire upper body against the edge, it seemed he did battle an unseen and internal foe so great a force he used to push each line into being. Finally, he slid back to the floor spent, pen still in hand, paper on the surface of the table. I raised myself from the floor to take a look but he grabbed my arm, his eyes pleading, "Be careful Mina."

"I will," I assured him, nodding my head. He released by arm and I raised myself to peer at the drawing. On the paper a sheep with strangely menacing eyes stared at me from the center of a large "A" contained in a circle. It was the same as the symbol in the mine but for the small K and M! I tore the copy I had made from my bag to be absolutely sure - there could be no mistaking it. I tore the sheet from my notebook and began to write, _Paul,where did you see this symbol?_

 _"_ In the mine, in Russia. It was on the wall the day... well the day it all went."

 _And you never saw it before that day?_

"No."

 _Are you absolutely certain?_ I wrote.

"Yes." he nodded his head. "I'd remember something like that."

 _Did Bond see it as well?_

Paul shrugged. I took another tack, _Do you know who painted it there?_

 _"_ No." Paul answered.

 _Might I take it with me?_

"Take it or burn it, either way I'd just as soon never see it again." Paul answered with a slight smirk on his wan, heavily freckled face; he had finally returned somewhat to himself again. Or at least the version I was familiar with. I found myself wondering what he must have been like before the explosion, all accounts of him painted him as a boy eager for adventure. So eager in fact it was only after he had shipped out that his parents had found the note upon his pillow explaining that he had enlisted in the royal navy at the age of seventeen rather than follow in his father's footsteps.

* * *

I could still see in my mind's eye the skeletal form of the young man as the ship's crew carried him from the boat, his thin frame lashed to a makeshift litter, his almost translucent pale skin only setting apart further the bright shock of red hair. I had received a telegram from Roger requesting I meet the ship to help escort a friend of his home. I had not comprehended the meaning of the missive at the time - it had been short, terse, with no details of relevance beyond the man's name, the ship he would arrive on, and place of residence - it was the first news we had heard of Roger in almost half a year's time, our first word of communication since we had sent the wedding invitation (though that date had come and go with no such affair occurring - instead we were once more consigned to delay the day, that I might care for my father during his prolonged illness). He might have done us the favor of a simple word of salutation at the very least! Only that he had business in Mayfair and could not accompany his companion for the remainder of the journey. Still, it was some proof he still lived and Quentin, Dinah, and I had rejoiced at the receipt of it. When the boy awakened (when had the age of nineteen become a "boy" in my mind?) I came to discover why the sailors had tied him to the litter. He was stone deaf and half mad! He moaned endlessly in a state of near wakefulness on the coach ride to his house. From the smell I guessed the sailors had chosen to quiet him with liberal application of rum. And how I wished I had a snifter of that particular libation on the coach ride to Tongwynlais! About thirty minutes into the journey the young man began to moan, his head lolling from side to side as his groans grew louder and more distinct until I could almost distinguish words though they held no true meaning for me to aid in their translation into proper English. They had sounded like names to my ears. I leaned in closer until I was almost nose to nose with the ailing man.

"...aero...me... aero...me...mool...mule...pol... th' guards... Aerome! Jeremy!" his eyes flew open, staring directly into mine yet I could tell it was not I that those terror filled orbs saw. "Paul!" he screamed in a voice that did not seem his own, "It's all gone wrong! Run Paul!" "Jeremy!" he answered himself in his own higher tones, his head jerked about mechanically as if he were searching for something, "Jeremy where are you?" "I'm right behind you, now run!" the deeper voice answered. "Run Paul!" The cabin was filled with hysterical screaming. Paul stared ahead, wild eyed, his mouth frozen open and emitting the most ghastly shrieks. I shook the man by the shoulders. Suddenly a force yank Paul from from hands. Instinctively I grasped at him, wrapping my arms tightly about his shoulders. In an instant I found myself on the ground with the still shrieking banshee, the sudden burst of sunlight forcing me to squint at the burly figure, holding a whip, staring menacingly at me.

"Shut him up! He's scarin' the horses." the coachman demanded. From behind him I could see the pair of horses straining at the reins the man held fast in his right hand. One of the creatures caught sight of Paul and reared, releasing a loud whistle of fright. The coachman jerked at the reins hard, bringing the terrified beast down. I stared at the coachman helplessly. "Then you'll both have ta' go," he said, mounting the coach with ease and letting the horses run as fast as they pleased from the site whence Paul and I still sat, his screams now reaching a fever pitch.

"Paul!" I had cried, striking the man across the face. "Paul!"

"The eyes! The eyes! They're bleeding!" Paul's arms rose hesitantly, as though he were trying to fight them. "They're bleeding!" His spindly fingers flew at his face, tearing at the flesh as an otherworldly maniacal laugh escaped his gaping mouth, "They're bleeding!" I threw my body around him in a merciless embrace, pinning his arms to his sides, my cheek pressed against his, I could feel his long fingers still working, trying desperately to return once more to his face. A nail tore across the side of my throat. Without looking I could tell he had drawn blood. I turned my face so I now stared into his forest colored eyes, so close the tips of our noses grazed each other. Suddenly, almost imperceptibly, the focus of his eyes drew back into themselves. His struggling form slackened. His head tilted, regarding me curiously. I slackened my grip and drew back from him slightly. I watched as his eyes searched out the details of my dress and form, so intense was his examination of me that I quickly became self-conscious.

"Paul-" I began.

"You're a woman," he observed wonderingly.

"Yes, clearly. But Paul, I need to know-"

"You're a woman." he interrupted again.

"Yes, I believe we have quite establish this fact."

"Are you an Englishwoman? Or Russian?" In awe he reached out a hand to touch a lock of my hair shaken loose by the ordeal. I pushed his hand away. What a strange question for him to ask considering I was speaking English to him at the moment.

"I'm English," I answered almost irritably.

" **I'm sorry. Could you repeat that louder**?" His voice was a reflection of his request. I resisted the urge to cover my ears.

"I'm an English Woman!" I practically shouted. He stared at me, befuddled. Something dawned on me, I put my fingers on either side of his ears and began snapping.

He only regarded me strangely. " **What are you doing**?" he yelled. I slumped backward. Deaf. Stone deaf. And he didn't even know it. No small wonder the sailors could not control him. I took an old, yellowed letter from my bag and wrote on the back: _My name is Miss Philomena Moore. I was sent to bring you home._ " **Why didn't you say so? Paul Brady**!" he announced, extending a hand. He must have figured out the situation by now, merely he was refusing to accept it! I sighed heavily before once more taking up the pen: _It seems something has affected your hearing, we'll have to have a doctor examine you_. " **Fine enough by me, haven't seen one of those in two years. Just so long as I get a proper meal first**!" he laughed - the first few notes were expelled normally before the tones of mania encroached. I stood and offered him a hand up before writing: _Come on now, we've got a bit of a walk ahead of us_. " **There's no walk too long with a pretty lady**!" His words caused me to wince from their volume in such close proximity to my ear. I made no attempt at conversation, merely allowed the young man to prattle on, some of it was sensible, but much bordered on madness. It quickly became evident from his tale why Roger had chosen that I should be the one to meet the boy at port. " **I haven't seen a woman in months, I'll tell you that for free. They said there used to be a few in the camp for the officers but I never saw 'em** **. And then there weren't any on the ship either. Caught a glimpse of some in Bombay**... **When I woke up I thought I was still in the camp - till I saw you that is.** " So Roger had known, at least to some extent, the boy's condition. Likely he had figured that were Paul to be greeted by the face of a man, or his own for that matter, he would believe himself to still be in the camp; and judging from the hysterics I had been greeted with when Paul regained consciousness, those were memories best not directly brought forth. He had wagered a female face would be the most likely to pull the youth out from his madness. He might have thought that worthy of writing!

* * *

I enjoyed the hospitality of the Brady family two months before returning home. Roger had sent a telegram to Inspector Brady explaining the situation a great deal better to him than myself. It seemed Paul had been kidnapped and taken to a labor camp where he had been forced to work in the mines. He had been involved in an explosion where he had been, apparently, the only survivor. He theorized that the result of such trauma had caused temporary madness in the youth but was optimistic that he would recover in time, however, he regretted to add, he feared Paul's hearing was lost forever.

The Brady house was large for the village it overlooked, not near to the scale of an estate, not even so large as my long estranged Uncle's former property in Sutton-at-Hone - but far more than a single servant could manage. It was a fine red brick affair, built by Mrs. Brady's father who had made a substantial living in trade and chose to leave the whole of his fortune to his only child, a spinster of no notable beauty not keen to shackle herself to any of the fortune hunters who sought her hand. It had been mere happenstance that had led to her acquaintance with the young Officer Brady who, at that time, was employed by the Police station in Cardiff. It seemed one morning while she was running an errand in the heart of town a young man had been so taken with admiration for her mount he decided to make off with it, roughly abusing the then middle aged woman in the process. As she tells it her screams brought the attention of a young, redheaded policeman and so handsome was he she quite forgot about the horse. There was a great wagging of tongues about town when they married, given the fifteen year age difference to a man of no fortune or name (of Irish blood at that!) it was impossible that some eyebrows would not be raised. Accusations of fortune hunting and various perverse inclinations were well whispered - even I had to question what might have possessed a man to take a woman so much his senior, or for a woman of means to surrender her freedom to a man for that matter. Paul, like his mother before, arrived the only child to doting parents. His mother claims him to look just as his father did though, given the stouter build of the senior Brady I would question that assessment.

I had hoped that once I had delivered Paul to his parents I might wash my hands of the whole incident, but it quickly became apparent they were not equal to the task of his care. Within hours of his arrival he fell into another fit and nearly knocked his father off his feet when the older man attempted to restrain him - he might have actually done injury to Officer Brady if not for my intervention. It seemed in his delirious state he could not distinguish his own father from the prison guards and his mother, nearly sixty years of age and frail, found the whole scene such a shock to her nerves I feared a doctor might have to be summoned. I wrote my mother claiming Mrs. Brady had requested I stay on as her companion for the coming months as hunting season was terrifically lonesome for an old woman; a request my mother was only too happy to grant. Thus I became Paul's nurse, as it were.

The first day was by far the worst. Despite the size of the house, Paul seemed unable to tolerate the enclosed space. His mind kept jumping between the present and the past. A fine beef roast dinner was rather spoilt by his detailed recollections of a Greek who had apparently been captured after a failed attempt to escape and his head mounted on a pike. Not that it mattered for Paul was unable to keep any of the food down and finally had to be served a thin chicken broth and bread which was even then almost too rich. His father, still overcome by the recovery of his son made the mistake of placing an arm around the young man's shoulders. He realized the severity of his mistake when Paul turned his wild eyes upon his elder, the incident resulting in the temporary requirement of a sling for the father. It seemed his son had taken him for a guard and had no desire to be forced back into the camp.

The coming dark of evening only further exacerbated his anxiety. As the sun set I found him sitting on a bench outside the garden staring, his head twitching slightly, at the slowly vanishing pink orb. I set myself beside him.

"I can't remember the last time I saw the sun set. I know I have hundreds of times, I'm certain I have watched a number of them - but I don't recall a single one. It seems so unfair that I'm the one who gets to see it. And here Jeremy and Mueller and Old Sean and Perce, even the Greeks - they'll never get to see one again. And why should I deserve such a thing over them?"

I shook my head in answer.

"It's alright, I know it. I'm deaf, aren't I?"

I nodded.

"I can still hear it though, I can still hear the screaming. The report of the rifles. I look to the west and I see the setting sun and the darkness coming above it and it looks like the world is on fire. And I am standing on the edge of the doorway of the barracks. We have a blanket hanging down over the door because the nights are still cold and it's better for some of us to go without than to let the chill in and I can feel the rough wool against my skin. When I breathe I can feel the nip of the cold in the air. And there's a man next to me so close I can feel him pressing against my shoulder to get a better look, taller than even I am, and I know it's Mueller. And he takes a look at the scene at the glow of the fire - it seems like it takes up most of the horizon - and he snorts and says something in German and turns around and goes back inside. I can feel someone else take his place, it's Jeremy. It's funny, whenever I think of Jeremy I remember him as taller, but I suppose he barely came up to my shoulder. And beside him is Perce. You would've liked Perce, he was my best mate, only a year older than me - came in a month before I did, showed me the ropes. He always told grand tales about his travels before: how he outwitted a tribe of cannibals in Fiji and rescued the rest of the crew from being boiled alive in one of their giant stew pots; or how he saved a fair young maiden from the clutches of the lecherous sheikh, or the one about the tribe of leopard men in Africa - that one was always my favorite. They were clearly complete rot and often changed multiple times even in the telling - but what fun they were to hear! He always said when he got out he was going to go back to Tahiti and never leave. He would have loved Mr. Bond but he never did get to meet him. One night, a month before we went to bed and I woke up the next morning and he just didn't. Don't know what took him. Died within days of Old Sean. But that was after. Right now I know Old Sean is behind me - a bear of an Irishman - and I can hear him cursing. But the rest of us are just standing there watching. And I can hear them screaming, hundreds of them being burned alive in their barracks. I can hear the crack of the guns like popcorn and I know they are shooting the ones who are trying to escape the fire. And I can't think at all, all I can do is watch the glow of the fire. And finally Jeremy pulls us back in and tells us we need get some sleep but who could sleep?! I'm staring up at the rafters and Perce is next to me, his eyes are closed but I know he's not asleep and all I can think is whether I would try to run or just lie down, breath in as much as the smoke as I could, and let my body burn to death and I don't know."

I rested my hand on his, he gripped it tightly.

"Then Old Sean got sick and we all knew, none of us said anything, but we all knew it would be us next. I saw the lumps and I felt like I was going to faint or be sick or both, he was barely able to stand he was so ill but he went with us into the mine anyway. I remember his face when he did it. There was a shaft where the ground had given way into a deep pit. He as we passed he just smiled, said "Goodbye and God be with you." and then he just sort of tipped over backwards and fell into the hole. He looked so at peace - I think because he knew he was doing it to save us. And I see it and I feel the brush of air from the fall against my arms and it's so slight that I almost don't notice it. We just stood there staring, in shock, until the guard demanded to know why we stopped and Perce just answered 'Old Sean Guire fell' - it didn't sound like him, he sounded a hundred miles away. The guard took a lantern and shone it down into the hole and you could see Old Sean's broken body at the bottom and the guard mumbled 'Well, no sense getting that one.' and we just kept staring so then the guard said 'I'll push all of you in if you don't get moving!' so we did. And all I want to do is go home. I dream of home! I dream of eating creamy chicken pies by the handful and kissing my mum and smelling her perfume and my bed! And sleeping in my own room with a down blanket all to myself instead of a greasy woolen one shared with three others. And here I am and I can't bear the thought of sleeping by myself. Would you...?"

"No!" I cried pulling my hands away, scandalized. He was unable to hear my answer but my response was quite clear regardless.

His eyes fell the his hands, embarrassed, "I suppose it was a bit much to ask, but still, might you at least stay in the room? It would give me some piece to know you are there."

My heart softened toward the poor boy who had suffered so greatly, I suppose the sensation must have shown on my face for his eyes shined with a new hope as he searched my face. I nodded, reticently. Taking Roger's original telegram from my bag I wrote upon the back of it, _But only if the door is left open and the lamps remain lit._

He smiled weakly, nodding as he said, "I should prefer it that way."

And in that manner I spent my nights for the first fortnight, watching as Paul drifted into fitful slumbers from a lowbacked armchair in the corner of his chamber. For the first few nights he often drifted from nightmare to nightmare. Soft grunts would quickly gain in urgency as his body, at first only the limbs twitching, contorted in the bed, throwing off the covers and twisting and turning in an alarming manner as he began screaming. At which point, as often as not, he would awaken himself with his cries, look over to my corner, and, upon finding me still keeping watch, would sink back under the covers and attempt to find sleep once more. My mind was occasionally drawn to memories of my own like plight, bedridden on the verge of hysteria under the watchful eyes of Roger Norbert. In that way I felt a certain kinship with the young man that, while it did not wholly obviate the lack of sleep I endured, it did lend some consolation for it. Though it was not uncommon for one of the staff to find me asleep in their diminutive library (if one might be so generous to call it such, as it was not much more than a dressing room with bookshelves and a wingback chair) at midday; a book, only just started, lying unattended in my lap. By the end of the week the nightmares had subsided considerably, or, at the very least, their intensity had lessened until he was able to sleep through the nights... most of the time, at least. By this time Quentin had arrived and took over my shift, Paul now rarely waking believing himself still in the camp and requiring the shock of my gender to snap him from the vision. He rarely spoke of his experience after that first day: what little I knew was gleaned from those nocturnal ramblings - names like Jeremy, Mueller, Old Sean, Perce, Mick O'Lally, Jim the Gimp, and Whittaker Smith had become as familiar to me as those of my own kin though they lacked any context or description. He never spoke again of what had occurred in the mine, if he had visions of it he kept them solely to himself until this day when they had once more come roaring to the surface. 

* * *

I left the house that evening following a rather generous supper. They, of course, made offers and requests that I might spend the night with them, but I declined, citing my business in Cwtch was not yet finished promising to return the following day for, while I made no show of it and he made every attempt to conceal it (which he affected very poorly), I was terribly concerned by Paul's current state. This placated the young man enough that his twitchy scanning of his surroundings calmed somewhat. Within the hour I had returned to the Colliery where Constable Davies awaited me.

"How is Mr. Brady faring?"

"It was rather a bad fit, but I believe he is through the worst of it."

"Do you wish to return to the main building?"

"No, that will not be necessary. I have reached the conclusion of my investigation."

"You have?" cried Mr. Davies, quite astonished.

"Yes. A gas cap was ignited when a shot was fired in the Cwm Nedd district of the mine leading to the deaths of the thirty-nine miners."

"But they would never fire a shot while the shift was in the mine! It's against regulations! And what of the fortieth man?" Davies protested.

"There were only thirty nine men recovered." I glared at Constable Davies significantly, "A gas cap was ignited when a shot was fired in the Cwm Nedd district of the mine. We believe the mine may reopen as soon as it has been restored to a structurally sound state with precautions taken to avoid such incidents in the future. Those are the findings of the Secret Service investigation."

"Yes ma'am." Constable Davies said with a slight touch to his bowler brim. I was gratified to see he understood.

"Thank you Mr. Davies. If you should find you have need of anything else do not hesitate to call on us. We will be glad to assist."

"Thank you, Miss Moore."


	3. Chapter 3

"Driver, please take me to the nearest postal office. I have need to send a telegram." I said as I swung myself back into the cab of the coach. Certainly I had great need! If it were as the evidence suggested it to be, if Paul's recollection were to be trusted (though who could be certain he had not seen the symbol in town? His mind was not what one might call reliable on the best of days)...

I could not say why I had not contacted him since the invitation. Quentin had written him a number of times, always sending salutations on my behalf and I adored my fiance for the favor, but not once had I put pen to paper to send them myself. I suppose I was cross with him, perhaps for making us wait so long to hear from him. Too many nights I had imagined him dead in countless ways on some foreign shore, buried in a grave marked by a name not his own - or worse! Burned to ash in that barbaric practice of some lands. It was only to Quentin did I voice these fears, only to him might I allow a tear to be shed. Never would I admit to that most impossible man that I had wept a moment for him. That I shall take to my grave. And then he goes and shows up in Japan after half a year without so much as a how do you do! And even then, though the letter held orders for me alone, it was to Quentin that it was addressed! Even if he thought us wed I am perfectly able to receive my own letters! The mere recollection of it left me fuming. But there was no time for such emotion - I would make him grieve for it in my own way when there were less pressing matters at hand.

The carriage bounced so hard I was almost thrown from my seat. My arms flew out to brace me against the back of the seat. "Careful!" I shouted.

 _"_ My apologies, Miss! We just hit some railroad tracks is all."

"Next time give me some warning!" I admonished the thoughtless man. "How much further to our destination?"

"About ten more minutes."

"Thank the Lord." I muttered to myself as I settled back into my seat, returning to my thoughts.

I was relieved Constable Davies had opted not to fight me on the conclusion of my investigation - he would not have been the first to attempt it - but likely he was even more eager than I that no further questions or investigations occur. I could easily see the headlines were the information to get out about the German: **German Immigrant Bombs Mine! Kills 39 British Citizens**. And it would certainly be that they would call him an immigrant despite no evidence to that fact. Of course they would for it would sell more papers and the consequences for the true German immigrants be damned. They would play it up for weeks; running through every possible theory and conspiracy until people suspected every German they encountered on the street to be a potential bomber. There was already more than enough anti-German sentiment. In a disgusting turn they were oft referred to directly or in euphemism to the large brown rats which had appeared from what was suspected to have been the same homeland. There were some who feared the English people would be similarly overwhelmed and driven into the same annals of history as the Old English Rat had been. My own blood, running as it did with the line of the Germans, had roared in insult and revulsion when, as a mere child of ten believing myself to have found a fine new book of essays on natural history, I had read the words Waterton (that vile man who called himself a naturalist) had written upon observing a caged black rat: _Poor injured Briton! hard, indeed, has been the fate of thy family! in another generation, at farthest, it will probably sink down to the dust for ever!_

If the people were allowed to believe the German immigrants were actively attempting to eliminate them en masse the tenuous peace that barely existed would come to an abrupt and almost certainly violent end. There would be riots in the streets of London! Manchester as well I could assume. Shops would be broken into, immigrants beaten (possibly killed!), thousands would be dismissed from their jobs for the simple offense of their country of origin. It would be the height of irresponsibility to allow such inflammatory information to be released - being unceremoniously chucked out of the Secret Service would be the best I could hope for if I were the cause of such calamity.

But I had a greater reason beyond public safety. Paul had claimed he had seen the symbol in Russia and now it had appeared in Wales - both times it had been a mine that served as the target of the attack and both had involved the detonation of an explosive device, beyond that I could not remark on any similarities. I knew a number of Royal Navy sailors were German - Paul had, in fact, mentioned a number of Germans at the camp - but I shuddered to consider the implications if it were our own Navy that had supplied one or both of the bombers. The coach slowed to a stop, the door opened revealing the heavyset bearded driver, "Cwtch Post Office, m'lady"

"Thank you, sir." I said, allowing him to guide me down to the earth. The frigid wind whipped at my face, on it I could scent coming snow; probably it would fall sometime late tonight. I pulled my shawl tighter against the cold.

"Shall I wait for you here?"

"No, sir. My inn is only just down the way. Thank you for your assistance."

"My pleasure, good day to you Miss."

"Dydd da."

The man allowed a smile as he turned from me and clamored back onto the driver's seat. I had found, with little exception, most people appreciated any acknowledgement of their native tongue, even if it were only in basic pleasantries. There was no sin in breeding such small bits of good regard, for one never knew who might become of future use.

I trotted into the Office quickly to get out of the cold. While it certainly would have been simpler to use the telegraph at the colliery, I would not have been afforded the same polite indifference as I was by the clerk here who did not seem even the least put out when I requested privacy for my personal correspondence. Now alone, I tapped out the code to have myself connected to what was supposedly an innocuous London address. Russell Shaw immediately picked up my transmission.

"Dydd da, M. To what do I owe the pleasure?" he tapped out in coded language. My instincts regarding the Shaw boy had been spot on. He had proven a remarkable code breaker; his talents recognized by his superiors, he quickly moved up the ranks until he was finally promoted into the top tier of the communications department. No less than three of the codes now commonly used were written by him, as well as one that he invented especially for communications between himself, Roger, Quentin, and I. It's function was more for personal use than business - largely used for setting up teas and dinners - but today I was glad for it as I had no desire that anyone else listening in should comprehend my conversation.

"I need you to patch me through to Bond."

"Is he expecting you?"

"No."

"I'll see if I can get him."

"Thank you, Russell."

I leaned back in the chair waiting. It was a number of minutes before the telegraph sprung to life again.

"This is Bond." came the answer I had been hoping for. My heart leapt leaving me momentarily disconcerted. I clumsily reached for the knob, knocking a spare ink tube to the floor where it left a great black splotch.

"Bond, how are you?"

"If you only wish to exchange pleasantries I apologize but I have work to be done."

My eyes narrowed as I glared at the offending machine as though somehow Roger might sense the look through the current.

"Actually, it is a question about the mine explosion in Russia that has necessitated this communication."

"You know I am not at liberty to discuss that particular case."

I ignored him and continued with my inquiry, "Did you see a symbol consisting of a circle with a large "A" inside, and inside the upper portion of the "A" a sheep's face with the smaller letters K and M to either side and the words "Ecce Sanguinem Agni" written above in the mine?"

"How do you know about that? Did Paul tell you?"

"I discovered it at the site of a mine explosion in Cwtch. Paul drew something similar that he said he had seen in the mine in Russia before the explosion."

There was a prolonged silence, finally the telegraph sprung once more to life.

"Is it possible we might meet?"

My breath caught, I had not expected this answer. What could possibly be the meaning of this symbol if it were important enough for Roger to leave Vienna? There was a strange burning in my chest as I tapped out the answer,

"Where and when?"

"If I leave by the early train tomorrow I should be able to make Brighton within three days. Meet me then at the West Pier at noon. Come alone and do not tell anyone of my arrival, not even the Underhills. It is of the utmost import that you do not mention any of this to anyone else."

"Understood." I tapped. "Take care."

There was another long pause before the machine once more sprung to life,

"Be safe."


	4. Chapter 4

_Trigger Warning_

* * *

I stood in front of the mirror in my hotel room slowly unbuttoning my high collared jacket. I sighed deeply as I slid the left shoulder over. Seated just below the curve where my shoulder met my neck two ached lines, dashed with different, yet symmetrical lengths, still glowed red from the pale white of my skin. Despite the aid of the mirror I turned my head, straining to see the marks. I gently ran my finger over them. They were just beginning to grow rough as the scabs formed. I shuttered. I had not taken a case in months, not since that unusually cold morning of December 10th when my father arrived home from a business trip to London with the Duke.

* * *

I had been watching from a window of the parlor stitching a thick border of lace onto a handkerchief meant to be a gift for Dinah for the wedding which was then only fifteen days away. We had originally set the date for late June but were forced to postpone when Rev. Underhill suffered a stroke that left him paralyzed on his right side and wholly unable to speak forcing Quentin to assume all of the duties of the Parish immediately as well as assist in the care of his father. We postponed the event until October in the hopes that by then the situation would be settled one way or another and in September it seemed all was as it should have been, Rev. Underhill was mostly recovered but for a slur in his speech and some difficulty with his right arm and leg that occasionally chose not to obey their master as well as a slight drooping to the side of his mouth that never fully resolved. But by the end of that very month I was playing nursemaid in Wales with no hope of reprieve. Quentin was nothing if not understanding, citing Christian Duty as far more imperative, and once more we postponed the date; this time planning for a Christmas wedding. It would be most convenient as we planned to have the family gathered anyhow and Quentin joked that perhaps if we did it in reverence of the Lord's birth he might favor us with good fortune. I knew I should have been quite perturbed by two postponements and yet I found myself entirely unbothered by it. We would marry eventually, of that I was certain, I felt no great pressure to rush the date. As was typical, Quentin was of the same mind as I, finding the whole prolonged affair a mere trifling bother that would eventually be resolved. Father had been away for a month but had promised to return today that he might be present for the wedding preparations. I feigned interest in my work, though every sound from out side found me looking up from my stitching to see if it was his coach.

Finally, I heard the clatter of wheels much louder than usual. I looked up, startled, just as the coach came barreling into drive. I saw Reg, our coachman pull the reins hard and jumps from the driver's seat calling out words I could not quite understand. Reg swung open the coach door with such force it bounced off the side and rebounded back to him but he seemed insensate to it. The footmen rushed to the coach and the three men gathered around the door. Between the three of them they managed to help my father stagger through the narrow portal, his arms wrapped around the shoulders of the footmen. His face was bright red, his expression drawn with pain, I could tell he was drenched in sweat even from this distance. Suddenly he lost his footing on the step, stumbling. The footmen caught him, bearing him up. "Father!" I shouted, throwing my sewing aside. I ran down the hallway to the door where I met them, my father being almost wholly supported by the three men. "Father, are you ill?" I cried.

"Just a touch of influenza," my father spoke through a grimace. "I'll be fine once I lie down. No need to call a doctor."

Reg sent me a look of grave concern as he and the footmen drug more than helped him to the stair.

"But father!"

"Just have the maid send up some tea," he ordered.

I did as commanded but was unable to reassure myself with his words. That evening I went to his room where I found him lying in bed, asleep, the curtains billowing like a ghost from an open window. The room was dark, despite the dimming light there was no lamp lit. I chaffed my upper arms fighting the chill as I approached the window to shut it. I felt the crunch of something beneath my foot. Removing my slipper from the spot I saw a shard of glass broken into three pieces. Strange, I thought, then I noticed another glinting in the fading twilight sun and another. My gaze followed the path of glass to a lamp shattered on the floor, a thick black stain of oil splattered the rug and bedsheets. My first instinct was to pick up the glass but a blast of freezing air from the window reminded me of a more pressing matter.

Just as I put my hands on the frame my father's gruff voice came from the bed where I had believed him to be sleeping, "Don't close that."

"But Father, it's freezing in here!"

"I said-" a fit of coughing broke his words.

"Father!" I ran to his side, ignoring the feel of glass beneath my slippers. He bent double from the fit, I attempted to hold him steady. I could feel his fever burning through the thick soaking wet fabric of his night clothes. His upper body was thrown forward from the force of the cough. I rubbed his back as though that might assuage the cough when I happened to glance up to the lump of upper back just below the neck exposed by his nightshirt. It was covered in spots. "Father, how long have you been ill?"

"Monday," he answered, his cough having temporarily abated. I helped him back down. His flesh had taken on a waxy appearance since this afternoon, sweat glistened on his face which was pale but for the rose of fever on his forehead and cheeks. His eyes were rimmed in crimson as though he had been crying yet those orbits were completely dry. Bordering the edges of his nightshirt I could see more of the horrible pink spots. I rang for the maid.

"Angela, fetch a bowl of snow from outside! And send for the Doctor immediately!" I shouted the moment she arrived at the door.

It was some hours before the Doctor could be procured, it seemed ours wasn't the only emergency call of the night. At ten o'clock he finally arrived, Chet, who had been waiting at the door for him led the doctor to the room where mother and I were tending to father.

"Dr. Hayes, thank God you are here!" I exclaimed. The man appeared exhausted as he walked into the room, the grey in his mouse colored beard set off by the candlelight. I stood, motioning that he should take my seat. He seemed to remove his tools from his bag as a matter of formality, placing the stethoscope to my father's rose flecked chest he listened intently. Mother and I held our breath as though afraid the very sound of our breathing might affect his ability to hear. He examined the inside of father's mouth and pulled the lids of his eyes so as to better see the deep red that surrounded them. He poked and prodded father for a few more moments before he finally drew back, his expression one of resigned defeat. "What is it?" I demanded more than asked.

"It is as I feared. Your father has Typhus."

Mother's hands flew to cover a gasp. She backed up so fast from the bed she knocked over her chair, almost tripping over it in the effort to distance herself.

The doctor continued his merciless explanation, "There's been an outbreak of the disease in London. I have just come from the Wyndham estate."

"Don't tell me the Duke..." mother said.

Dr. Hayes nodded, "Mr. Wyndham is gravely ill." My mother seemed to waiver were she stood.

"What can we do?" I asked, grabbing hold of my mother's arm to keep her up.

"I can give him some medicine that will calm some of the symptoms. Keep him cool. If his symptoms get worse call for me immediately." Dr. Hayes said, packing up the black bag of his trade.

"Chester..." father groaned suddenly, the syllables sounding as though they required a good deal of effort just to expel. "I need Chester."

Chet, who had been standing just outside the doorframe timidly entered the room. "Yes, Father?"

"Sit," father ordered. Chester obeyed. "Leave us," he indicated slightly towards mother and I. We left the room quickly.

I waited for what seemed ages sitting on the top stair where I could have a good vantage point of what transpired just down the hall. I watched as the Steward entered and left a few minutes later. There was the sound of hoofbeats fading into the night followed some thirty minutes later by the sound of a pair of horses. Father's solicitor arrived and followed the steward up the stairs and into Father's apartment. Finally the Solicitor left, followed closely by the Steward. A few minutes later Chet appeared in the doorframe, his aspect pale, his expression stunned.

"Chet!" I cried, getting up I rushed to him, taking his hand in my own where it rested limply.

"He's relinquished control of the business over to me." I could feel his cold hand shaking in mine. "I don't know what I shall ever do without him."

I embraced the stiff form of my younger brother, desperate to provide him some comfort yet unable to articulate words that might bring him solace. What words might I have that were not mere hollow platitudes of false hope? I knew as well as anyone more than half of all people who were diagnosed with the dread disease perished from it and even were we among the fortunate few his health and faculties would likely be irreparably damaged.

* * *

Thus the wedding was indefinitely postponed. I spent next month at my father's bedside applying cold compresses to his fevered brow and washing the sheen of sweat from his skin as he lay in a state of delirium only broken by occasional moments of restless sleep from which pain soon enough awakened him into incoherent babbling and moaning. Lucidity had left him in the first few days to be replaced by a madness. By his screams he seemed to desire to do violence but those desires were rendered impotent by the weakness in his limbs until finally he only lay there, whimpering in the most pitiful manner. I could not describe the sensation I felt as I dipped the compress in the bowl of ice cold water, wringing it through benumbed fingers, and laying it across his brow at which point his body would stiffen with the contact and then fall once more into small spasms from the relentless pain. He was always such an imposing figure in my recollection; a tree that would not condescend to bend, let alone be broken. I could see him sitting behind his desk in his lofty office pouring over the ledgers until all hours of the night. To think I might never see him there again brought the sting of tears to my eyes. He seemed so frail now as he teetered on the edge of life, his strength spent by the mere practice of breathing. Mother insisted I allow a nurse to replace me lest I too become infected, but I would not be moved from my watch - I suppose it was that stubbornness that was his inheritance to me. Every minute with him might prove the last and I could not bear to sacrifice even one to a stranger. So I watched as he labored painfully to breath in and out, in and out, and prayed in earnest with every breath for just one more. One more year, one more month, one more day, one more hour - one more breath! A dozen or so mission requests from headquarters lay unacknowledged in a drawer in my room. I expected Quentin had told them of my situation yet still they tried in the hope that the situation might soon resolve itself, one way or the other, and I would then be back to work. Their hope was in vain for Father still lingered on neither showing signs of recovery nor passing into death.

Mother would not see him, nor would she permit Elizabeth and Avery to even draw near the room until such time as they could be parceled off the relatives for the Holidays. Chet attempted to visit father a handful of times in the first week but each time left quickly, a hand veiling his eyes. He threw himself into the business and certainly he found plenty of occupation there with the end of the year finances to tie up and the plan for the coming year still only half written.

Neither of us spared much more than a fleeting thought for the Duke and his plight until late one night, well after the servants had gone to bed, there was an urgent pounding at the door. I only barely heard it from my post beside father's bed. I peeked out from the door to see Chet at the bottom of the stairwell.

"Who could it be this late, Chet?

"I haven't the foggiest."

I quickly took to the stairs, meeting him at the base. I drew to my brother's side, nervously wrapping my arm around his. "Should we ring for someone?"

"No, trouble rarely knocks."

We approached the door, I with visions of Roger come in distress - these I knew to be nonsense for I was among the last people he would come to - in a space of seconds I had already conjured half a dozen ways inwhich I might explain his presence away. But when Chet threw open the heavy wooden door it was not Roger but Arthur. His breath fell heavily, his face white as a sheet excepting for the bright red rims of his puffy eyes - he looked less a man than a specter in the gloom of the night.

"Father's dead." he managed to pronounce before he collapsed forward. Chet and I caught him before he could hit the floor. He made no effort to right himself. I could feel his body shake violently as it was wracked by silent sobs. The three of us slowly folded to a kneeling position on the floor, never having released each other, where we stayed in such manner until the first rays of dawn shone through the windows. With the dawn came confirmation of the news. Arthur, Chet and I had just sat down to breakfast, more from a sense of obligation to the appearance of normalcy than from any desire to eat judging by the untouched state of our plates, when mother came bursting into the room. Her gaze instantly found Arthur sitting between the pair of us. She paused, her lips slightly parted as though she wished to speak but instead she abruptly turned around. I thought I heard a sob catch as she hurried through the doorway. A few minutes later the Butler came in and delivered the message that Mother had gone for the day to be with her dearest Caroline in her time of distress and not to expect her for dinner. I suspected we were also not to expect her for Breakfast the following day. Jet and Arthur retired to the parlor while I went to tend to Father. It was evening before I was able to join them. Perhaps it had been my imagination, but it seemed Father's breathing had become easier.

I entered the parlor to find Arthur in high spirits, telling a rather ribald tale of the daughter of an English Businessman in India. It seemed after the business man had been arrested for something (Arthur knew not what) his daughter had gone and run off with the half-breed footman,

"Seems they had been carrying on the affair for over a year, right under the old man's nose! Accounts from my associate said they weren't even discrete - everyone knew! Said he had even come upon them once in the garden. But the old man wouldn't here a word of it. Apparently the footman somehow had the gall to ask for her hand before and the father rejected it. The daughter wanted to run off by the footman refused. So the daughter set about to punish the both of them by making a whore of herself to every man who walked into the house. Even my associate said he had a taste and he was nearing fifty with no real fortune to speak of! All to get back at daddy!"

Chet laughed uncomfortably.

Arthur spotted me standing in the doorway, "Come in Mina, join us!" he gestured for me to come in. After hearing such a tale I admit I had no desire to join them but a pleading look from Chet convinced me. "Tell us, how is that preacher of yours?"

"He fares well." I said, seating myself in the window seat as far from Arthur as might be managed without seeming rude.

"I was sorry to hear the wedding needed to be postponed once more."

"It was unavoidable." I said coolly, not sure where he was going with this line of dialogue - nowhere good, that was certain from the vicious grin he sent me revealing his sharp canines, like fangs ready to rend their prey.

"I've noticed you have been spending a great deal of time at his residence."

"Dinah is a dear friend of mine and they have lately needed assistance due to their father's illness."

"If you say so. Though this does seem to suggest a situation where the man may not wish to buy the cow if he is already getting the milk for free. If you would like I am sure I could throw some added incentive his way."

Chet started, he looked as though he wished to object but decided against it. Instead he took a swig from a brown bottle I knew to contain Laudanum.

"Mr. Wyndham I know you are impatient to hasten your own nuptials to my sister, but you do not need to worry on our account, we will marry when the time is best for us both and no sooner."

"My apologies, I just didn't want you to be exposed to scandalous talk. There are those who might suggest rather indecent questions regarding your virtue."

I was livid. I wished to object in the most vehement manner but my words escaped me.

Chet stood suddenly, "I apologize Artie, but I must return to my work. You are welcome to remain here as long as you wish." Having said his peace, Chet strode out of the room leaving Arthur and I behind.

We sat for some minutes in silence, I too enraged to speak and he lacking his audience for he knew I cared nothing for his humour. Finally, I stood, "I'm sorry, I need to tend to father." As I passed in front of Arthur, his hand grabbed my arm, halting me. I turned to see what I had not expected, his face was pale, pleading, a desperation shone in his eyes.

"Please stay with me a little longer. I do not wish to be alone right now."

I hesitated. "Perhaps you might go home," I suggested, a cold note still rung in my voice. His hand slid from my wrist, joining its brother at his brow. He nodded his head slightly.

"I cannot go back there. I just-" A sob escaped him, I leaned over quizzically to see tears falling freely from his eyes. "I cannot bear- I cannot bear it!"

I placed my hand upon his quivering shoulder. He reached up and entwined his fingertips with my own. He looked up at me, his face wet with tears. I had known Arthur his entire life and most of my own and in that time I had never once seen in that comfortable, arrogant expression even a flash of the germ that might create the pitiable creature that now sat, openly weeping, before me. I set myself down next to him, wrapping an arm around his shoulder. He leaned his forehead against my shoulder, I could feel his head lolling from temple to temple.

"I don't know how I shall ever get by without him."

Without ever intending to, I stayed by his side the entire evening. Little was spoken between us, for he was unable and I unequal to the task of providing words of solace. In time, his tears slowed and finally ceased. We sat for quite some stretch of time in silence before I spoke, "If you do not wish to return home tonight, I can ask they prepare the guest room for you."

"I think- I think I will try to go home tonight. I know it would do my mother good." There was a watery quality to his voice, "I do... I do apologize for what I said earlier. There is no excuse for it and I will not insult you by attempting one."

I was stunned. Never had I known Arthur to apologize - but then nothing in the past few hours was in character for the man. The man who was now, at such a young age, a Duke. I was momentarily unable to respond though he seemed to be waiting expectantly for an answer.

The absence of my reply left him crestfallen. He stared at his hands, now entwined between his knees, "Of course, I would understand if you chose not to forgive me - I was unduly cruel to you for no reason, as has been my habit from youth. I know I can never make up for all the wrongs I have done you, but I hope you know they were not out of malice."

No. Of course they had not been. He had enjoyed them far too much for it to be malice from which they had sprung. Still, seeing him in this most miserable state my heart broke for him. "I do forgive you, Arthur."

"Thank you!" Relief swept over his face. "I do hope we might be able to become friends."

"I would like that." I lied. For Chet's sake I might tolerate him, by Elizabeth's wish I could be persuaded to feign friendship, but to desire friendship with a man who, but for his rank and wealth would be rightly called a degenerate - who had christened me "Mad Mina" in my youth, a title I still held with most of the locals - i was not of the mind. But he was in need of kind words and surely such pretexts would fade once his usual favorites had returned.

"Might I come by to see you tomorrow?"

"If you wish. Though I cannot guarantee I will be able to devote much time to you."

"Anything you might give I will be grateful for."

* * *

True to his word Arthur did return the following day after lunch had concluded and stayed well into the night, and the next day and the next, until I had become quite accustomed to his presence. Chet spent most of these visits shut up in the study, avoiding his friend, I believed, in an effort to somehow ward off the death of his own father - as though tragedy itself were a contagion and avoidance might work as a charm against it. Thus the task of entertaining our guest fell to me. At first I was a rather unwilling participant but Arthur had such an easy way of conversing and such a knowledge of quite a number of subjects I came to enjoy the time.

"They've set the day for the funeral," he said, apropos of nothing as he titled a book from the shelf to gain a glimpse of the cover. It was the first he had mentioned his father since his death. "It will take place three days from today. There will be a procession through town, midday."

"I will inform Chet. I know he will wish to attend."

"And what about you?" he turned his attention from the shelf, looking at me expectantly. "Will you attend?"

I had no great desire to attend the funeral of that horrible, treasonous man who had thought no more of attempting to run Roger through than he had of drowning those sweet baby kittens one of his Stable cats had born. "If you wish it."

"I do. I would see it as a personal favor."

"Then I shall attend." I said nonchalantly, though I pointedly refused to meet his gaze. The moment was pregnant enough without lending it further power. I had never thought myself susceptible to Arthur's charms, yet I now found myself almost eager to see him waiting for me in the library after lunch had finished. When he had been late the other day I had found I was rather disappointed by his absence. As though the walk to the library had been somehow wasted by the fact he was not waiting there.

"How is your father faring?"

"I am not quite ready to claim it, but I do believe his fever is on the verge of breaking."

"That is a relief. You must be very glad."

"I believe no one is more thankful than Chet. He was in no way prepared to take on the family business just yet." The careless words had left my tongue before I considered their impact. Arthur turned away from me, his shoulders slouched forward. "I'm sorry, I know it has been hard for you."

"I know you meant no harm." he strode over to sit next to me, taking my hand in his. His hands were warm. I had never noticed how large they were. Some part of me still could not expect them to be anything other than the toddler's hands I had held when, at the age of four, I had been the idol to both Arthur and my own brother. I glanced up from our hands. Green eyes met mine. Not a child's eyes. The eyes of a handsome man. My eyes fell back to our hands, I could feel a blush rising on my cheeks and brow. I prayed he might consider it embarrassment at my lose talk than as anything more. "I can't imagine how I might become a fraction of the man my father was. I know I am not half so wise or clever as he. I only just know how to perform my duties as a Duke. I suppose I believed he would live forever, that his position would never fall to me. I don't know why I believed it - I know it was nonsense - but then nonsense was what the thought of his death seemed. That a man like that is anything less than immortal is pure madness to me. I had no doubt he would survive. I was so certain. Any other outcome was simply unthinkable - I literally couldn't think of it, could not conceive it. And then he was gone. I was just sitting beside him reading and sometime between the break of the chapter and the end of the next he breathed his last. And I - I didn't even see it! His life just stopped with none to witness it. I didn't even believe it when I saw it, saw him lying so still! It was strange, like a candle had been snuffed out. And I was alone. In three days he'll be parceled away and laid where I may no longer see him. And he's not going to be there when I get home. He will not be sitting in his chair indulging in a smoke while he waits for my far too late return. He will not be there to guide me, to protect me. To instruct me it the way to go. And I'm scared, Mina."

My heart skipped a beat - it was the first time since I had attained the age of eight he had used my nickname without the intention of torment. The grip of his hands tightened over mine.

"I am so so scared. How shall I ever get by without him? I just don't know."

"You will though. I promise you, you will."

"But will I? It is an easy enough thing to promise but I cannot envision it. How am I to be the Duke over the whole of N-shire?"

"You will manage. You are more cleverer than you think and more capable than you believe. I know you can do it. I have faith in you." And in that moment I truly did. I felt the fire within my breast burning with a heretofore unknown fidelity towards the young Duke. Perhaps it was my inborn loyalty to those of noble rank, or perhaps it was because I believed I saw the spark of nobility within him, finally revealed by trial.

"Do you truly?" he demanded, wringing my hand.

Bravely, I met his gaze, "I do." Perhaps the fire within me shone through my eyes for in the next moment held me in a fervent embrace.

"Thank you, Mina! You have no idea the good it does me to hear you say that!"

To anyone passing by we would have looked quite the sight, he so consumed with emotion to make such a display and I with my arms sticking out awkwardly lacking the wherewithall, in my surprise, to reciprocate the action. It was all I could do to give him a light pat on the back.

After the better part of a minute he loosened his embrace and held me at an arm's length, "So you will come then?" The look in his eyes was so sincere, so anxious, I almost had to stifle a laugh from the sheer surprise of it all.

"I will."

"Thank you. It will be easier to know I do not have to face it alone."

"You will have Chet as well, and your mother."

"But where have they been? In my hour of need it was you who has sustained me and you have my everlasting gratitude."

I should have recognized it for the shameless flattery it was, but alas, I allowed myself to believe those words. For some part of me yearned for his good regard, to continue to hear my name said without "mad" attached to it. Perhaps that I might be elevated from being the subject of whispered gossip about town to one for fitting of a Lady. He was not the despicable man his father was; perhaps his ignominious traits might even be cured by my good counsel and he would become a man of notable virtue. A man fit to wed my sister. A man whose good influence might deliver my brother from his own dreadful habits. And would it not increase Quentin's influence to have such a good connection? To be engaged to a Lady of good standing, not the madwoman of Greenmoor Commons. All that I desperately wanted seemed now to be within my grasp.

* * *

I saw little of Arthur in the days leading to the funeral. In that short span Father improved tremendously, his fever broke the second day and by the third he had regained the ability to say simple words though at great exertion of his faculties. With the illness mostly past I decided to take on a nurse to aid in his continued care. I was now able to leave the house and walk the grounds. Assured that her husband was out of danger, Mother had all but taken temporary residence with Mrs. Wyndham whom she said was inconsolable from the grief of losing her husband. On the day of the funeral I spent the entire morning getting Chet prepared while he listed about in a laudanum induced stupor attempting to continue his immoderate consumption until I took the bottle and emptied it out the window. He was none to pleased with my actions but his slurred abuse was more comedic than stinging and I once more comforted myself with the thought that good influence on his friend might bring about change in him as well. At the procession itself he was barely able to remain awake, let alone stand. I had to keep an arm around his waist to hold him steady and twice I found him staring at his hands during the Reverend's remarks only to discover quickly he was not grieving, but asleep. From behind the pulpit Arthur caught my eye. I nodded and he slightly tilted his head in acknowledgement before once more focusing on the preacher.

Chet fell asleep almost as soon as we arrived home. I was only thankful Elizabeth and Avery were not present to witness his debauched state. I quickly checked on Father and, finding him sound asleep with the nurse enjoying a cup of steaming tea while she watched over him, made my way to the Library where I lost myself in a thrilling little Russian novel. I had not even noticed the descent of night upon the household or the progression of it to such an advanced hour until a knock at the door brought me back, from the mind of a murderer to the red velvet chair I occupied.

"Who is it?"

"Miss Moore, it is Mr. Wyndham come to call." the voice of the Butler announced through the oaken slab.

"Do send him in."

Arthur entered the room looking quite well for the day. I stood resting my book, open to the page I had just begun, on the arm of the chair. The moment the door closed and we were alone Arthur strode over, took my hand, and raised it to his lips bestowing upon it a gentle kiss. Not letting it go he raised his eyes to mine, "Thank you. Thank you for coming."

I flushed, a color only probably more pronounced by the firelight. "It was nothing." I murmured, pulling my hand back and going over to tend to the fire. I prodded a few of the logs with the poker sending up a shower of sparks. I felt a pair of large hands, still chilled from the night air, wrap around my upper arms.

"It was far more than nothing," Arthur whispered into my ear. I felt the sensation of his kiss on my neck, another gave me to know I had not imagined the first. My body stiffened. A feeling of revulsion leapt from my stomach to my throat. Another kiss. I could feel Arthur's warm breath next to my ear, "Why are you resisting this?"

"I am an engaged woman!"

"So? He doesn't have to know. I won't tell him."

"I'll know!"

"And you should know once in your life what passion feels like before you resign yourself to a life of mere friendship. I know you yearn for more, I saw it in your eyes the last time we spoke. I felt it in your heartbeat against mine. You cannot deny the attraction. Don't fight it. Even if he does find out he'll forgive you, you know he will."

"You are as good as engaged to my little sister!"

"But we are not yet engaged." he said, laying another kiss on my neck. Suddenly I felt the sensation of his teeth sinking deep into the base of my neck. I reeled around brandishing the poker. I thrust the red tip so that it pointed dangerously at the hollow of his throat.

"How dare you! If you ever so much as lay a finger on me again-"

His initial look of shock melted into a haughty smirk. "You'll what? Scream? Run me through? Tell your sister? My dear, who would believe you?"

"I have the evidence here on my very neck!" I said, tearing at the collar of my dress to show the mark I was sure he had left.

"I'll only say you attacked me and I was forced to do such a base thing in self-defense. Mad Mina. They would put you in Bedlam for sure, assaulting your Duke. And on the day of his Father's funeral no less."

I was at a loss for words. He had me. There was nothing I could do. Nothing I could say. He took a step toward me.

"Not one step closer." I thrust the poker forward menacingly.

Arthur backed off, his hands raised in the air on level with his shoulder, palms facing me in a mocking gesture. "Alright, alright, I've had my fun anyway. Perhaps when I call tomorrow you will be more... accommodating." he said as he turned to leave.

Not until I heard the front door close did I lower the poker to my side. Tomorrow? Tomorrow! And the next day and the next and how long might I hold out against him for? I could not fight him without risking being locked away! I certainly could not kill him. He was right, who would believe me? Who would believe the Duke had made such advances on Mad Mina? Even if I sent for Quentin he would arrive far too late. Perhaps I might go, not that Arthur could not easily track me down at my fiance's house. How had I been so niave? Had I not known what was said about him? Had I not heard tales? I needed to leave, to go someplace I would not easily be found. As I quickly walked down the hall pondering where I might go I heard the sound of the telegraph tapping away. Who could it be at this late hour? I unfolded the door to the diminuative telegraph room and found it printing out a message in code. **Explosion at National Colliery in Cwtch - 6 Dead - Agent required for immediate investigation**. I ripped off the paper and quickly typed my response: _Mission accepted._ _Will leave first thing in the morning_. With that I packed my bag and waited until the first rays of the sun began to light the sky.

* * *

I slowly stripped down to my undergarments, I took one more glimpse in the mirror as I stepped out of my dress. I could still see the mark he left standing out a brilliant rose on the field of snowy white. A sense of nausea settled in the pit of my stomach as a I stared at it. A perfect imprint. Undoing my hair, I let it fall about my shoulders, covering the wicked thing. I slid my nightgown over my head and flipped my long hair up and out of the collar. As I crawled into the bed I felt waves of exhaustion come over me. I had been far too anxious to sleep on the train but now I was suddenly hit by the need to. Tomorrow I would see Paul and his family. And then I would be off to Brighton to see Roger. I could stop by and visit Quentin and Dinah the day before the meeting. Or maybe not. That would be the first place Arthur would call when he realized he had been wholly thwarted. For a moment I felt the grip of Arthur's hands on my arms again, the feel of his kiss. I shook the memory from my mind. What Roger would look like now? I wondered. Would he have changed so much since I had last seen the back of him at a distance from my engagement celebration? Perhaps he would have grown a beard? I tried to picture the image, smiling at the comical image I conjured in my mind. It will be good to see him again regardless. And with that thought I drifted off into a deep, dreamless sleep.


	5. Chapter 5

I awoke and walked over to the window of my room. Placing my hand on cracked white paint chipping from the casement, I watched the waves roll in covering the stony beach in blankets of water that crept to the very edge of a long stretch of naked sand before flowing back into the sea from whence it came. Even in this cold weather children combed the beach for mussels uncovered by the low tide. From my vantage point I could see people standing on the edges with their crab lines running into the water, every so often one would pull up something, put it in a pail, and then toss the line back in the water. Only locals would dare venture onto that structure. Locals and the children of society, like Avery, who did not know better - much to the horror of our parents, I might add. And, of course, their horror only gave him to know he should be afraid and it fell upon Chet to rescue the poor boy who, by then, was too terrified to move and crying profusely. For all his protests, I believe Chet rather enjoyed playing the hero, he could not hide the smile from his face as he carried Avery, little arms clinging tightly around his neck, from the pier. Beyond the Chain Pier I could see the West Pier in the background, its tollhouses and grandstand jutting into the horizon line. Soon it would be filled with the men and women of society taking their morning constitutionals once the chill had lifted.

The day promised to be fair, a rarity in late February, and was already proving warmer than was common for the season. Already I could see gentlemen about, most probably off to work in the offices and shops that seemed to be springing up everywhere. I wondered if they would have a band playing at the grandstand today, given the fair weather. I would be glad of it, I did not want it to be just Roger and I. I shivered at the thought of seeing him again, though I attributed it to the cold seeping in from the glass. I turned my attention back to the sea. I had never seen the West Pier from this vantage point, sitting, as it did, just above the horizon. My family had always chosen to stay at the Grand Brighton, practically overlooking the Pier, as did most of the other families of note staying on Holiday. And looking now at the large grease stain on the faded wallpaper of my room in the Royal Albion, it was no mystery as to why. There was little to commend this place beyond that it was not a place that a Lady would care to stay, and this fact alone decided me on the location. By now Arthur would realize I had foiled him and I knew from long experience he was a force to be reckoned with when he did not get his way – he would have it out, one way or another. I did not want to think of what he might do, I had never perceived him as particularly dangerous; but that look in his eye when I threatened him, that vicious gleam that was somewhere between hunger and excitement, that cold rage witnessed only for a moment before it melted into his usual cool demeanor when he realized that while I might not be easily conquered I could yet be trapped. Subconsciously my fingertips brushed the mark again. His mark. It was rough now, beginning to raise where the skin had been broken. Disgusted, I dropped my hand and began my daily ablations.

Noon found me standing at the foot of the Pier, parasol open but leaning against my shoulder so the warm sun fell upon my face. The day was lovelier than I had seen in a month. Throngs of people crowded about the pier. A small brass band had taken the opportunity to occupy the bandstand sending a bright tune over the lunch set. I had opted to wear only a light jacket, leaving my coat back at the hotel – apparently I was far from the only one to have done so. Many of the other ladies were also taking the rare opportunity to display their finery.

"Ah! Miss Moore!" A voice from the crowd approaching the pier hailed me. It was Roger, hand raised in greeting, smiling more broadly than I was accustomed to – in fact, I was quite certain I had never seen such an expression on his face before. Though, in the brief time he took to close the distance between us it had vanished into something of such common politeness I wondered whether I had seen it at all. "And how do you fare?" he took my hand, giving it a quick press.

"I fare well, Mr. Bond. I trust your journey was pleasant?"

"But for some rough seas across the channel." A shadow fell across his face, "I'm sorry, I meant to say Mrs. Underhill, but it simply slipped out as Moore. How is your husband?"

"Still a bachelor at the moment."

Roger regarded me with a confused look, "I thought the wedding was to be over Christmas?"

"So you did receive the notice. We had assumed it never got through and thus saw no need to tell you of the postponement."

"Again? For what reason this time?" There was a mocking note in his voice I did not appreciate in the least.

"My father contracted Typhus. A fact you would have known had you responded to our invitation."

"I had heard about the Duke; I did not know your father was ill as well."

"They were on a trip to London together."

"I am sorry to hear that, how is he?"

"He is recovering. We were fortunate."

"Is there another date set for the wedding?"

"Why? Do you intend to avoid being in the Country on that date?"

"Perhaps I might attend if it is convenient." I had never seen Roger quite so flustered, nor truly flustered at all. I might have laughed if I were not so irritated with him.

"I doubt it shall ever be convenient for you."

"Nor you, but regardless, have you set a new date?"

"No, we have not. And precisely what is that supposed to mean? 'Nor you.'"

"You have postponed the wedding thrice now after almost two years of engagement. One would think perhaps you did not wish to marry."

"How dare you suggest such a thing!" I was not sure which of us was now more flustered, Roger or I, but judging by the stares we were getting from those passing closely it did not particularly matter for between the pair of us we were making quite a scene. I lowered my voice, "We've just had a run of rather bad luck is all. It will happen in time."

"But do you want it to happen in time?"

"How- Of course I do. Quentin is a wonderful man and I am very fond of him."

"'Fond' is an interesting choice of words." There was a hint of mischief in his eyes.

"I think you are intentionally attempting to vex me."

"I won't lie, it is most amusing."

"Well, you should have written and I might have proved quite the clown for you."

"I might have had you done so first. But let us dispense with the pleasantries," he said, taking my arm and guiding me out onto the pier.

"Yes, let's. You did not come all the way from Vienna to discuss my wedding."

"No, I did not."

We approached the midpoint of the pier where Roger stopped and leaned over the rail, looking out over the sea. I stood next to him. Finally, he took a folded handkerchief from his pocket and undid it, revealing a scrap of fabric with something inked on it. He handed the little piece of cloth to me. It was singed around the edges but it was what was on the swatch of silk that held my attention. "Do you recognize it?" he asked, still peering out at the horizon.

I nodded, "It's the symbol from the mine explosion! Well, a portion of it."

"I was given that in Chosen. It was among the effects a former spy, Mr. Pyong, had on him when he died in a ship explosion, as well as another agent, Mr. Kim."

My hands flew to my mouth in shock, "How awful! Were you acquainted with him?"

"We had worked a smuggling case together in Hong Kong some years ago."

"Was he a friend?"

He glanced at me. "It is better not to have friends among spies," he answered, his gaze once more returning to the horizon.

"I'm sorry for your loss," I said, placing a hand on his forearm. I saw his other hand jump slightly toward mine, then retract and move to hold the other instead.

"According to his wife, Gun had been working for the French Ambassador as his Attaché. She said he carried an attaché case with him at all times, but none was found either in the wreck of the explosion or among his personal effects."

"Perhaps it was destroyed?"

"I thought so at the time, but after the assassination of that official in France who had been working on the treaty, I have not been so certain."

"An assassination?"

"It was strange, a single bullet to the head in the middle of a crowded street, but no one saw or heard anything. The shot would have been remarkable at close range, for it penetrated through the ear, but from a distance beyond easy hearing would almost be miraculous. Initially they thought he had died of a blood vessel exploding."

"How did they know otherwise?"

"There was a house about one hundred yards from the sight of the assassination, the owner had been out for the day and returned to find his upstairs window open and that symbol scrawled on the wall. When our agent in the police force heard of it he ordered an autopsy."

"So this is far from the first time this symbol has been seen?"

"Yes. I was the first to report it when I returned from Russia. But since that time there have been a number of reports throughout Europe and Asia. Factories being blown up, mine explosions, business men suddenly dying, a number of officials who have been killed or gone missing. I'm not sure how much the Office has told you?"

"Nothing, if not for Paul's recollection I might have believed it to be graffiti."  
"How much was Paul able to recall?"

"Very little. I gather he did not see what happened. But he remembers some of what happened before, he goes into these fits where it's like he's still there. He's shouting for a man named Jeremy and, from what I gather, this Jeremy is shouting back, telling him to run. And then he sees something and it seems to frighten him - he says 'its eyes are bleeding' and then he just screams. This last time he was able to draw what he saw."

"And that was the symbol?"

I nodded, "Yes."

"It is for the best, I suppose. Better he not remember more than he has to of that terrible thing."

"So what exactly did happen, and why were you there? I thought your assignment was to India."

"I was investigating the kidnapping of a Naval officer, a Lieutenant Commander Jeremy Hoople - he would be the Jeremy Paul is shouting to - he had been taken to a work camp in Russia where I found him along with a number of other missing sailors being forced to work in the gold mines. We devised a plan to get everyone out but on the day of the planned escape it all went terribly wrong. I don't precisely know what occurred in the mine; my best guess is that someone pried open the door to a tunnel that was filled with explosive gas and took dynamite to it. I wish I knew who it was but a number of the men closest to the tunnel were incinerated by the blast. It was a miracle Paul survived - and he only because Jeremy took the full brunt of the blast for him and even then Paul was more dead than alive with at least a dozen broken bones and other injuries."

"What about the guards? Aren't those camps typically well guarded? How did you escape with a man so injured?"

"All dead. Every last person in the camp was dead but for Paul and I."

"How?"

"Poison. White arsenic is a by-product of gold smelting. Someone had mixed it in with the flour. I discovered it when I went to get bread for Paul. Every last Russian was dead, some still at their tables. I have never seen such a thing and hope I never do again. Whoever it was that did it had planned it remarkably well, down to the very last detail. I tried to track down the families of the men whose names I knew: Old Sean was one - I did not meet him but they said he died a hero to protect them - no family to speak of but seemed he had gotten in a bit of trouble on the isle for some political rabble rousing. There was a Franz Mueller, I know he had twin brothers: Georg and Gregory - I shall never forget their names. I sought them out while I was in Austria, by Franz's accent I guessed them Berliners. My guess was correct though no one had seen or heard from them in the better part of a decade and there was no word of them emigrating here."

"They probably went off to America."

"Most likely. Though I am sorry they will never know what became of their brother."

I guessed his words were less in sympathy for the Mueller brothers than a misplaced fear for his own sister never knowing his fate were he to be killed in a foreign land.

"Jeremy was the hardest. Clara still answers the door first..."

"I'm sorry." I did not pry further as to who Clara was; I did not wish to know the answer.

"He was a good man. They were all good men. They did not deserve to die in such a manner - in such a place!"

Roger's emotions were beginning to get the better of him, I decided it was best to move the conversation away from the camp. "You said the symbol has been seen at the site of multiple attacks?"

"Yes."

"Is there any clue as to what it means?"

"Well, the Latin is easy enough to translate: it means 'Look, the blood of the lamb' which might be related to the sheep in the center, but beyond that is only conjecture and little of it helpful. Were you able to discover anything in your search?"

"Only that the bomber was German."

Roger was astonished, "German, you say? That is a piece of luck! We have not been able to recover a single bomber in any condition for identification. Any idea who he was?"

"To be fair, he was not in the best condition either... I was only able to determine his origin from his skull. There were no Germans on the rolls so it had to be concluded he was the bomber."

Roger flagged a bit, "So you were unable to find out anything else about the man?"

"No."

He regarded me dubiously, "You and your skulls. I suppose it is better than nothing, though." Suddenly, he squinted at me, focusing very carefully on one little spot, "What is that on your neck?" I tried to cover the spot but it was too late. Roger could not resist crowing over me, "I didn't know Quentin had it in him."

"He doesn't."

Roger's visage immediately turned to one of concern, "Was it Paul then? You mentioned fits- I would not have asked you to help had I thought him capable-"

"It was not Paul."

"It cannot be over a week old. Then who-" he caught himself, "There have been rumors, scandalous talk that has reached even so far as Cumberland-"

"I don't want to talk about it." I turned my face from him, ashamed.

"What did he do?"

"I told you, I don't want to talk about- What is that?"

"What?"

"Over there!" I pointed. Not taking time to check if Roger was following I walked toward the post only a score of feet from the pier entrance. I knew what it was even before I had reached it. "Oh Hell's bells and buckets of blood," I cursed under my breath as Roger stopped at my side a curse escaping his lips so coarse were I not so preoccupied I might have chastened him roundly for using it in the presence of a lady. There, on the post, deeply engraved on the wood, was a circle, a large 'A' overlayed atop it with the image of a sheep at its center and the letters 'K' and 'M' to either side. Above the symbol were the crudely carved letters spelling out "Ecce, Sanguinem Agni".


	6. Chapter 6

I started walking quickly toward the head of the Pier, scanning the steel support posts just visible below the pier's edge.

It took a moment before Roger caught up to me, "What are you doing, Philomena?"

"There's a bomb on the Pier."

"How can you be certain? It could be an assassination."

"Look around you." I made a gesture encompassing the whole of the shoreline. "There's no solid vantage point. Further, the only way to do a proper assassination would be to have followed the target and figured out his regular pattern of visiting the pier. If that were the case, why choose the finest day when there are such large crowds? Why not wait until another day? But a fine day like this would be ideal for a bombing. I'd wager there are easily three hundred here now and when the Lunch hour has concluded it will be all the worse. A mine explosion might be overlooked as an accident-"

"But not the West Pier. It's an announcement. And if it is then the bomb would be-"

"Under the head of the Pier." I finished. Even as I said it I saw the first charge (or what I assumed to be a charge for its appearance did not fit that of any explosive I was familiar with) only a few feet ahead. "James!"

He looked down to the place I indicated. Upon catching sight of the thing his eyes narrowed, "Gelignite."

"What is gelignite?"

"It's a type of explosive puddy, for lack of a better word, but it requires a detonator."

"So the culprit may be close at hand," I said. Reaching the edge where the charge was I peered over, Roger at my side. "I count three charges but I don't see any sign of a detonator. Perhaps he hasn't finished setting it?"

Roger drew back for a moment, an index finger wrapped around his chin in thought. "If I were to attempt to blow a pier..." he muttered. "Three gelignite charges would hardly be enough for something of this size." He strode over to the other side of the pier, I trotting behind. "Here!" He waved me over to the opposite edge of the pier. I looked over the edge to see two gelignite charges, a fuse attached to each coming from behind the post. "Time bombs. I'm guessing the entire underside is rigged with explosives and when these go off they should cause a cascading effect."

Without further need of discussion I undid my silk waist cinch, which had previously been tied in an overly large bow with long tails trailing down the back almost to the hem of my skirt, and unwrapped it from its three circumventions of my waist. "Be a love and hold my hat." I said, placing the thing in Roger's hands. "If one thing is to be said in commendation of these puffy sleeves, they do make it much easier to move." I tied the one end of the cinch tightly around my waist and the other around the post above one of the bombs.

"What's all this about?" Roger seemed somehow surprised regarding what was clearly the most obvious thing in the world at the moment.

"I'm going to diffuse the bomb," I said, stepping over the top rail and turning so that I now faced his astonished visage. "Come now, don't make such a face. I'll be back in a moment." I gripped the wide silk ribbon with both hands as I leaned back.

Roger grabbed my arm. "Are you mad!" he cried.

"That would be the common consensus, yes. Now do let go before someone notices." He looked around the Pier, realizing the situation he released my arm. "Well, cheers." I said as I jumped from the edge, catching myself just a few feet down.

Roger paced back and forth above me, stopping only to put a hand to his brow and then resuming once more. He paused and peered over the edge, "Do you even know how to defuse a bomb?" he hissed.

I gave a slight frown, "Not as such, no." Then I proceeded to walk backward down the post, carefully stepping over the explosive. Now well placed, I wrapped my legs tightly around the post so that I appeared to be sitting, tailor-fashion, in midair with the bomb before me.

Roger threw up his hands and, looking to make certain no one was watching, he threw off his coat, stepped over the edge, and proceeded to shimmy down the post beside mine upon which the other bomb was tethered. I could hear him grumbling the entire way down. Gripping the post tightly in much the same fashion as I he glared at me. "You really don't know how to defuse a bomb and yet you climbed down to do it as though the whole matter were as simple as serving tea?"

"Serving tea is an art unto itself that takes years to truly master. Explosives are really the domain of you and Quentin, my knowledge of them is rather lacking. But I knew you would be able to tell me how once you got down here."

"Gah!" he cried. "When did you become so damnedably infuriating?"

"I think sometime around when I turned eight." I granted him a wry smile which he met with a scowl.

"I should let you blow yourself up."

"Yes, but then they'd think it was you who blew up the pier."

He feigned consideration of this thought, "It might be worth it."

"The bomb, James."

He and I turned our attention to the device. It was a strange thing to be certain. The bomber had encircled the two posts with the explosive, above which an alarm clock, set to go off in half an hour, was attached to create the timed detonator. From the detonator two very different fuses sprang. One was a thin piece of rope, but the other was a thick wire which was strung across to a post in the middle of the pier from which a second charge had been set. Roger's bomb had the same configuration. The two central charges did not meet but were on either side of a wooden crate that seemed to be filled with tin cans. Around these a number of plastic explosives were set, unattached to the main devices. I touched the wire. It was coated in a rough, reddish sandy substance that had an oily sheen to it. "James, what do you make of this?"

He touched the wire, held his fingers close to his eyes, sniffed them, a bright spark ignited within the dark substance. He spat on it immediately, causing it to extinguish. He grimaced. "White phosphorus coated in kerosene. I believe our bomber meant to use it as a fuse to blow whatever it is in that crate at the same moment as these charges are to go off."

"Why are so many of the charges unattached? He would not have set the clocks were the bomb not complete."

Roger frowned, "No, he would not have... I have a bad feeling he may be intending to use whatever is in the crate as his main detonator. The danger is he may have included an element that would create a spark if we merely pulled the wire from the clock."

"Can we not just block the light by gripping the wire?"

"If it were anything else we could, but this will burn right through your hand - you cannot grip the wire tightly enough to stop the air from getting in and once ignited it will burn wherever there is oxygen to feed it. Even if you did stop it your body heat would light the other side. Whoever he is, he is using the cold temperatures to control ignition. Mina, I need you to pull the rope fuse from the charge, not the clock, but the charge itself," he said as he performed that very task. I did likewise. "Now, do you think you can swing to the post I'm at?"

I surveyed the distance, then nodded. It was easily within the span of my arms.

"Good. Now I'm going to ask you to do something very dangerous. If anything happens to me I want you to pull the wires."

"But it might ignite!"

"That will be a chance we'll have to take. You will need to untie your sash, grab both wires at the same time, and jump if you want to have any chance of stopping the bomb. The fire will not be able to travel as quickly as you will fall - that will pull the wires from the gelignite on the other side."

I looked down at the crashing waves below me. I had no way to know if it was yet deep enough to break my fall. A sickness at the thought of my body broken below rose within me. I took a deep breath.

"Can you do it? Because if not I will do so right now and save myself the trouble."

"I can!" I said, nodding furiously despite my quivering hands. My stomach felt as though it might discharge itself at any given moment.

"Alright then." He easily climbed up to the main support beams and gripped the top of the steel beam. He swung swiflty, moving hand over hand across the lower beam, through the spider web of supports in a manner that would make it hard to believe him a man of forty years. Suddenly, his hand slid from the place it had just landed. My breath caught. He dangled precariously by one arm, like a rag doll caught on a nail. Reaching up, his fingers only just grazed the bottom of the beam. After a second attempt to reach it he let his free arm hang limply. His body shrugged a little as he repositioned his hand and began to swing, forward and back until his legs were almost parallel with the beam. As his body swung forward he pulled up with his left arm, somehow still gripping the beam, and popped his right hand back onto the beam. I exhaled. He made fast work of the remaining distance, pulling himself up onto the boxlike intersection of beams from which the crate hung he was now able to move about by balancing himself in the corner where the lower beams crossed. I watched as he dipped a finger into one of the cans, maintaining his balance with one of the thin diagonal steel crossbeams. He frowned as he rolled the substance between his fingers. "Blasting oil." he called to me. He might have said it was a dirty mugrawp for all the words meant to me. "Gunpowder mixed with nitroglycerin. Highly volatile. Explosive when agitated. This crate alone could bring down the entire pier in an instant." Careful not to touch the wires, he pulled out a small blade from his waistcoat pocket and cut the wires from the gelignite charges allowing them to fall. They dangled pathetically from the alarm clocks that still held them. "Mina, pull the wires from the clocks now. I'd rather not risk them igniting themselves and lighting this whole place up."

I did as I was told, yanking the first wire from the clock it instantly caught aflame. I dropped it instantly, watching as it fell into the water below. I felt a growing heat on my hand and was dismayed to find the line where my glove had touched the wire was now on fire. The unfortunate object followed the wire to its watery demise. Not wishing to repeat the error with my only remaining glove I set to detaching the clock from the post; which was a task unto itself for the thing was attached to the post with a knot that would have made a naval man envious. Still, I was able to finally free the item after a few minutes work and watched with some satisfaction as it plummeted to the waves below.

"How are things over there, James?" I called out over the sound of the waves.

Roger had been diligently emptying the cans into the water. "Fine, provided no one throws down a match."

A gust of wind swept across the sea. A shadow appeared from something over my head. I looked up, alarmed that it might be the bomber, just in time to see my hat hover down to the ocean where it came to rest like a lacy little boat on the waves.

"James, my hat!"

"What about it?"

"You could have, at least, thrown your coat over it!"

"I was a bit busy making certain you didn't blow us to Kingdom come."

"That was my favorite hat!" I pouted.

"I'll buy you another one."

"I'm perfectly able to buy one myself. It is the principle of the matter!"

I watched as he slowly folded himself around the post, convulsing with laughter. I tried to remain indignant in appearance but a short burst of air from my lips brought forth a laugh that was followed by others. With a smile more true than any I had seen Roger display before, he chuckled, "I'm coming back now. If my coat happens to go the way of your errant hat, please wait till I am across to inform me." He easily swung back to the post. However, I had failed to recall I was still clinging to that particular pole until it was almost too late. I sprung across just before he could collide with me, I missed my catch and in an instant I was falling. In just that moment I felt a hard grip on my wrist and something pulled me up. "You know, you really should be more careful," Roger said as he pulled me up to his eye level, my nose only inches from his. He smirked. "It is fortunate your arms are so long or I might have missed you."

He never could resist a remark at my height, could he? "I had my cinch, there was no reason to fear."

"You're lighter than you appear," he said as he pulled me up and down. "Here, you might as well climb on my back. I'll take you back up."

Blushing at the prospect, I retorted, "I can climb up myself, thank you."

"I'm certain you can, but this way is infinitely easier, wouldn't you agree?"

I contemplated for a moment the unpleasant prospect of having to climb the freezing steel post with only one glove and the complicating matter of a dress as compared to the mortification of accepting his help. I sighed heavily. "Fine. If you insist." He pulled his arm, holding myself, behind his head where I was easily able to clasp my arms tightly over his shoulders.

"Hold tight," he directed. I clasped my wrist tighter. "Here we go."

In a minute I was able to see over the edge of the pier. "Is anyone looking?" he asked from just below me.

"No. I don't see your coat anywhere either."

"Damn it all."

"Such shocking talk in the presence of a Lady."

"Well, go on, you should be able to make the rest of the way on your own."

"I thought I was light."

"I may have spoken too soon."

"You horrid man." I returned with such a look that fell somewhere between teasing and genuine offense he seemed unable to know quite how to respond.

"You had best get off my back before I do something I might regret."

"What? Like throw me to the sea?"

"That I would never regret."

"Mr. Bond, you are more contrary than I recall."

"And you are heavier than I recall, so if you would..." With a quick jerk of his head he indicated toward the lower rung. I pulled myself up, making certain to be more clumsy in my climb than I would normally allow, just accidentally clipping his ear with my boot heel. He quickly followed. Upon standing he noticed the black pile of cloth sitting where he had left it, "There's my coat, right there."

"So it is." I spoke, taking a swooping step to face another direction.

I felt hot breath next to me ear, "You are the single most infuriating woman I have ever met."

I could no longer hide my smile, it burst forth like the sun from within the hole in a cloud, "I shall wear that title with honor, Mr. Bond."

"We should go to the entrance of the pier. The bomber will want to make certain his plan went off."

"Oh dear, he will be most disappointed, won't he?"

"Let's hope that makes him careless."

At the entrance we carefully scanned the crowd. Roger pointed out a young man who was nervously pacing back and forth, casting furtive glances at the pier.

"He's probably waiting for his sweetheart. Probably they are planning to elope." I said dismissively.

"Don't people elope in the night?"

"Only if the woman is employed or they are especially foolish."

"How do you mean?"

"Well if a woman is employed she will only go missed for an extended period in the night. Of course they will be easy to track down once inquiries are made: given there are few coachmen who do not remember the handful of rides they give at night. But if she is not employed, as a lady of society might be, she would be most able to slip away unnoted during the day. What coachman thinks twice about one of a hundred couples he has to ferry back and forth."

"So what makes you so certain it is an elopement?"

"His shoes. Look how worn they are. The rest of his outfit is fit for a gentleman but for his shoes. That would imply he felt he had a reason to wear his finest suit. And the only reason to wear such a thing during the week..."

"Would be a wedding."

"Correct, and he would not be pacing in front of a pier if it were a normal marriage."

"Well if not him, than who might it be?"

I examined the entrance once more. There was something odd, out of place, some detail it was taking me a moment to fully recognize and name. Suddenly there was a happy cry from the crowd and a young woman in a fine purple dress ran to the pacing young man. He caught her in a loving embrace.

"You see? And this is precisely why Father does not open our home to the public on Christmas. Wait a moment! There!" I pointed to a shadow just beside the tollhouse that had shifted slightly at the young woman's outburst. "There's someone behind the tollhouse. Here, take my arm." I said, Roger obliged. We strolled over to near where the man was standing. He was young, no older than twenty by the look of him, his brown hair was neatly kempt and parted to the side. It was his clothing that struck me as most unusual for the cloth items were clearly homespun, the fine leather shoes cobbled - and while the former might be evident of rural poverty, the latter certainly was not. He was far too distracted by his pocket watch to give us much attention. He kept looking at the watch and then the pier. Finally, seeming to be satisfied that something was amiss he began to walk toward the body of the pier. Roger rushed to catch up with the young man, starting so suddenly he dragged me a few steps before I could catch his pace.

"Excuse me, sir?" he called to the man, tapping him on the shoulder. The man turned, a look of agitation on his face. "What time is it?" The man scowled irritably and turned away from Roger. Roger tapped his shoulder again, "Or should I say: Weivel uhr ist es?" The man turned in horror stricken recognition of those words. It only took him a moment's assessment of Roger's severe mien to determine we were, in fact, not simply a couple enjoying the warm afternoon. "Her Royal Majesty's Secret Service."

As soon as the words were spoken the spell over the man created by our presence was broken. He ran.


	7. Chapter 7

The man ran into King's Road threading through the crowds of after lunch strollers and coaches as we attempted to follow him. "Mina" Roger cried, yanking me back by the scruff of my dress as a horse reared before me, it's large hooves threatening to make short work of me had Roger not intervened.

"Watch where you're goin'!" the coachman shouted, pulling the beast aside.

I made no time for apologies, "James! Over there!" I pointed down a side street where I had just seen the man disappear.

We made for the street. Up ahead I saw the young man glance behind and, seeing us, he took a right onto Russell Road. Heads turned down the busy street as the man shoved his way through the crowd. "Stop! Thief!" I shouted as Roger and I followed behind. A burly fishmonger attempted to tackle the man but he managed to swerve just in time. Still, he was losing ground to us fast. The man stalled a second at the end of Russell, looking left, then right - he spun around to see us still on his heels. Panicked, he turned left up West, but the time he had lost in his decision would not be easily made up. We had now closed to half the distance with Roger gaining. The man glanced over his shoulder at us. In doing so He failed to notice a horse cart full of casks before him. The horse reared letting out a piercing whistle of warning. Somehow the man shot under the animal's sharp hooves and, once clear of the front of it, he struck the horse's hindquarters. It whinnied in fright and tore down the alley. But the man had misjudged the motion and the back corner of the cart sent him flying into the wall. Roger slammed me against the wall, his arm holding me pinned against the cold brick as the creature ran past. I felt the cart brush the skirt of my dress along. The man was scrabbling to run, falling over himself in his efforts. He righted himself, clutching his arm he took the first street available to him. Roger hurtled an errant cask as we both picked our way through the wine-soaked cobblestones.

"We need to get him someplace isolated in case he has any explosives or weapons on him. I don't want to give him the chance to take hostages," Roger said as he raced alongside me.

"He doesn't seem to be too familiar with the city. There's an alley in old town next to the Draper's shop, it looks like it goes through but it ends in a fishhook shape so he will not know he's been trapped until it's too late. Try to shepherd him to Prince Albert st.; I'll go South and block him that way."

"Agreed." Roger nodded. He doubled his stride disappearing up Middle street after the man. I turned South on route to Ship St. Gardens, less a street than an alley I knew, from years of forced marches through the shopping districts of the town with my mother, would deposit me directly onto Ship street itself. I sidestepped a garden box that inconveniently jutted into the narrow pathway, interrupting two young children as they concentrated on drawing pictures with sticks on the cement path. As I came out I saw the man running toward me. Seeing me before him he immediately back tracked but just as quickly saw Roger gaining on him. In desperation he took the only path available to him, turning down Prince Albert. I raised an eye brow at Roger as he passed, he allowed a nod before jogging off.

The incident on West must have taken a greater toll on the man than initially believed for Roger was now running at an easy gait. Still, I was glad it was he giving chase and not me, I could already feel a pain in my side from the exertion. I fought my need for breath, continuing down the little lane that led to the place where Black Lion intercepted Prince Albert. Little had the man realized he was running right to me. He was only yards away when I came out of the lane. His face was blotchy and red, I could see his chest heaving as he fought against exhaustion and panic. Seeing me appear before him once more, he turned around quickly but this only seemed to serve to disorient him more in the tangle of streets that made up the ancient district of Old Town. I fought the urge to attempt to give direct chase. Roger had veered to the left side of the street, making Meeting House an impossibility for the man's escape. The man dashed into the crowds of Nile with Roger close behind.

Though my lungs were now burning and my body screaming in protest I dug deep into my last reserves knowing this final run all came down to my speed for it was now that I had the greater distance to cover with no time to cover it. I hiked up my skirts, allowing a lengthening of my stride to take full advantage of my long legs. I was down the remainder of Prince Albert in a matter of great, leaping steps. No longer able to bother weaving between shoppers; they would have to make way for me. I arrived at the intersection with Market just as the man darted from Nile, he looked as if he intended to turn right, but seeing me in his path he spun and ran up Market with Roger and I both close at his heels. Roger veered slightly North and I slightly South, herding the man down the northern capillary of Market. I nodded at Roger and we once more broke off, I down the southern capillary of Market and he still gaining on the man. I was now obliged to slow down so as not to show myself too early and cause the man to turn left. It was fortunate that, like most people, he had proved in times of stress he was inclined to follow his dominant hand right instead of turning left. I peered around the corner of a large brick storefront: there was the man, Roger now almost beside him guiding him down East Street toward me.

Just as they were approaching the Draper I stepped out and turned up East to meet them. With only one way left to go, the terror stricken man turned right into the alley. Roger met me at a jog. There was no great need to hurry now; the trap was sprung. We followed the strange, curling road to its end where the man was desperately attempting to reach a fire escape by standing on a refuse bin. Upon hearing our footsteps he spun, causing the bin to crash to the ground with him on it. He hit hard, grasping his already injured arm he mouthed soundless screams.

Roger was on him first. "Come on now, get up," he said as he roughly tried to right the man.

There was a flash of silver and scarlet. The man flew back from Roger, brandishing a wicked looking curved knife with a barb at the end. Roger's coat sleeve was badly slashed, the white of his torn shirt slowly turning to red.

"Roger! You're bleeding!" I cried.

"So I am." Roger said, eyes never wavering from the man who's eyes darted between us. He stood with a wide stance, ready to strike at any approach. I saw Roger's hand quiver toward the silver revolver at his hip. Still, he kept his hands open, palms facing the man. "Come now, we don't need any trouble. Just drop the knife," Roger spoke in soothing German tones.

I took a step forward. Catching the motion he pointed the weapon at me. I held my hands out, palms forward to show I was unarmed. "Put down the knife." I directed in the same way as Roger. "We only need to ask you a few questions."

Now it was Roger who took a step forward, causing the man to frantically attempt to point the knife at both of us, switching from one to the other with desperate jabs at the air. "No closer!" he shouted. "Get away!"

"We can wait as long as we need to," Roger said. "We don't want to hurt you. We only need a few answers."

The man backed up against the wall still alternating between the two of us who followed him, walking forward, step for step. He hit the wall with a start, as though he had forgotten his situation. He looked from Roger to I and, raising the knife into the air, he shouted, "Sanguis Agni!"

"Roger!" I screamed, thinking the man was about to charge. Roger caught me just as I watched the man run the blade across his own throat. Red liquid seemed to appear from nowhere, drenching the lower half of his neck, running down into his collar. The man tilted backward so slowly it was as though the moment were frozen in time. His shoulders hit the wall, his head fell back with the impact. I stared, wide-eyed, entirely unable to move. I was only vaguely aware of the strong arms around me, the thick black woolen coat against my flesh.

"Don't look," Roger murmured as he turned me from the scene.

"But we- we must help him!" The spell broken I tried to turn, but only found Roger's green striped waistcoat before me. "Let me go!" I demanded as I struggled against him, my fists balled against his chest, striking to no effect on that unyielding surface.

"There is nothing you nor anyone can do. He's already gone." He enfolded me against his chest. Without my knowing, or even willing them into existence, tears began to flow from my eyes onto his waistcoat.

"We could have stopped him." I said, miserably. "He was so young! He needn't have died."

"No, he had made up his mind. He chose death over capture. Even between the two of us we could not have been quick enough." He held my quivering form for a minute longer before loosening his hold on me. I looked up, still with my forehead partially pressed uncomfortably against his pocket, the ticking of the watch in his pocket like a strange mechanical heartbeat, his eyes met my own - gentler than I was used to seeing them, with a sort of sympathy behind them I had never before encountered in him. "Are you able to carry on?"

"Yes," I said, boldly.

"Alright, if it's too much you can turn away."

"No, I should be fine."

He stepped out of the way, revealing the young man - so alive only a moment ago! - prone form white within a sea of red. Tears once more stung my eyes, but I fought them back. Seeing my resolve, Roger strode over to the body. How he could ignore that warm, metallic aroma was beyond my ken. The long dead I was quite comfortable with, and the living if I were required to be for the sake of the mission; but those who had only just made the transition from life to death, the dying and the suddenly dead, it was they that affected me most. The change in substance could not be ignored; though Roger seemed easily able to do just that. He picked up the knife from beside the body and inspected it, "A fishing knife. Must have been a fisherman. He'd choose the blade he was most comfortable with."

"But not lately." I interjected, coming up beside Roger. "There's rust on the blade. It hasn't been used for the purpose of fishing for a long time. And look here," I said, pulling out the contents of his pocket which possessed strangely discolored spots. "Fishhooks, almost rusted through, but they are covered in grease."

"Likely to prevent friction when he hoisted the wires up."

"Further, these shoes would be impractical for a fisherman. They are too low at heel, and look at the intricate punch-work detail in the leather. They would have no ability to hold water out. Still, they have clearly been used extensively," I gestured to the well worn wood of the sole and cracked leather at the ball of the foot. "So we can assume these were not solely used for dress purposes."

"That is odd. Shoes of this level of workmanship would certainly be expensive. Whereas the clothes," he gestured to the handwoven garments, "indicate a rural life. But fishers don't typically turn into farmers..." Roger carefully extracted the man's watch from his waistcoat. He turned it over twice. "There's no maker's mark." He gently bounced it in his hand, "The metal seems to be tin. But it is so finely incised one would never guess it to be of such cheap material. Here!" He extricated a long diamond shaped piece of metal that had entwined itself in the watch fob. Freed from the tangled chain a key dangled from the miniature plaque upon which was written **The Lion Mansion Hotel** and underneath that the number **15**. That was the hotel next to my own! Roger stood, dusting himself off, "Well, there's not much more to be gained here. Let's be off to the hotel before someone comes upon us."

* * *

I was not particularly keen on the suggestive leer the oily desk clerk favored me with as Roger passed me by him, arm wrapped round my waist with the room key dangling from a long finger while I played the part of the enamored tart, fawning on him in a sloppy sort of way that drew the eye to me and allowed only a cursory glance at Roger. A glance only long enough to confirm that he was, indeed, handsome enough that it was only proper that a woman such as myself would be willing to succumb to a midday tryst. The disgusting little man seemed to regard my paramour with a degree of envy - less from the look of the company than by the mere fact it was attainable to handsomer men. I pushed away from Roger the moment we had turned the corner into the hallway.

"Ugh! Vile man!"

"That was to our advantage. He was so caught up in his own salacious thoughts he failed to recognize that I was not a guest. I would say your acting has improved markedly."

"No amount of flattery will mitigate my crawling flesh. Let us find the room and begone from this horrid place."

"It is not so horrid. Rather modern really. Are you certain you don't want to stay here? It's a good deal nicer than that palatial rat hole next door."

I shot him a most withering glare, "Quite certain."

"Well then, here we are." He turned the key in the lock and pushed the door open.

"Oh dear," I said as the door swung open revealing the room.

"I don't think the maids will be particularly happy about this."

The entirety of the room was covered in assorted rubbish. Papers with drawings of sheep faces littered the floor around the desk and bed. The desk had been converted to a workbench of sorts covered in tools, various filthy beakers connected by glass tubing to greasy flasks, and scraps of metal and wire with black and silver dust in small piles on the heavily scarred wooden surface. To the left of the main work surface cans of oily liquids and dark powders sat. To the right, in neatly written script were a stack of papers, haphazardly arranged. Pulling my probe from its home in my bag I gently prodded the top paper, revealing a sketch beneath of the crate with notes pointing to various parts and directions of how to mix the blasting oil and place it in the crate; even going so far as to illustrate how to create a temporary scaffold from the mooring dock on the other side of the pier. _To avoid catastrophe hang the crate first and only then place the cans within, one at a time. Agitation of the mixture may lead to explosion,_ I read the strange combination of German and French carefully, not altogether certain I had read correctly though the implication was entirely clear.

"Why would they use something so volatile?" I asked, the question more directed to myself than anyone else.

"I wondered the very same." Roger answered. I had forgotten for a moment that I had company in my investigation. "Blasting oil hasn't been manufactured anywhere since the second explosion of the Krummel Factory in Hamburg almost three decades ago; there are few alive who would know the correct proportion of the ingredients. It's illegal to even transport liquid nitroglycerin across borders. How he would be able to obtain as much as were in those cans..."

I began picking up the papers that cascaded from the desk to the floor as Roger began rifling through the drawers. "James, look here!" I produced an empty bottle from a small wooden crate that had sat obscured by the drawings.

"Nitroglycerin," he read. "This is a Chemist's bottle. I wonder..." He walked over to the nightstand and pulled open the drawer, pushing through it he found what he was looking for: "Peter Kohl, Chemist, Dusseldorf, Germany. And here's another: Albert Hesse, Chemist, Munchen, Germany. Manfred Jaeger, Chemist, Heidelberg, Germany... Berenbostel...Koln...Woldegk... There must be two dozen of these!" he said, holding up a stack of business cards.

"I wonder, which, if any, was his real name." I spoke with a note of sadness in my voice. It seemed something of a tragedy that the young man would die without a name, with no one to tell of his passing.

"I doubt any. It appears he was passing himself off as a Chemist who intended to set up shop in England in order to obtain medicinal nitroglycerin. He probably used so many different identities to avoid rousing suspicion. And then it is quite a simple matter to manufacture blasting powder if you know the correct combination."

"This is interesting," I said, shifting the contents of a lower drawer about with my probe.

Roger bent over to see, "Looks like Francs, Marks, Pesetas... he probably did not need them anymore once he arrived in England. This passport's in French: Louis de Arles."

"It's in the same script as the notes on the sketches."

"So it is." Roger affirmed, comparing the passport to the papers. "But it in no way matches the signature on the landing documents."

"Another forgery?"

"And a good one at that. Whoever put this man up to his task covered their tracks well."

"Well we know he was German - that much is made obvious by the identification cards. And likely he was not particularly well versed in any other language or else there would be cards for that region as well."

"They probably only taught him enough French to get through immigration."

"He was no Chemist either, at least not one by training."

"Why do you say that?"

"I have known few Chemists in my day, but to a man they were all fastidiously tidy regarding their workspace. None would allow their beakers to sit in such a state of disgrace."

"Perhaps he believed there was no point in cleaning them if he was going to his doom."

"And that's just the thing! They would have been all the more likely to clean them in that event. What a terrible disgrace it would be to be caught dead with dirty beakers!"

A smile flitted across Roger's face.

"It seems he was quite concerned with the image of this sheep," I said, flipping through a number of the sketches. "But look here, he's painted a cross on the forehead with his finger in what appears to be..." I squinted to be sure of what I was seeing, "blood."

Roger peered over my shoulder, an easy feat at his height, then he snatched the drawing from my hands.

"James!" I protested as he flipped the paper over.

"This is the same script as the signature would you say?" he said, holding the reverse side of the paper before me.

"They do appear the same. Das Blut des Lammes," I read aloud. "The - I'm not certain of the word - of the lamb?"

"It would figure for a woman to know of lambs before she knew of blood."

"I am not certain if I should be offended by your characterization of women or if you have said something crass that I did not wholly comprehend."

"That, I am under no obligation to reveal. Regardless, this does seem to strongly suggest a religious component to this attack. Though beyond that I cannot hazard a guess. It is highly unusual for a religious group to attack outside of their own locality."

"He may have ascribed his own religious component to it. That he was a sacrificial lamb of sorts. It would account for the method of suicide."

"Perhaps. I am most concerned about the level of detail put into this plan. It is far more organized than it should be; there have been multiple people involved in creating this plot. This man was just the executioner of it. And that troubles me greatly. I think we should report to headquarters immediately and tell them what we have discovered."


	8. Chapter 8

I squinted at the paper before me, the figures obscured by the waning light. Looking the window I saw the sun's golden glow peaking out from behind the grandstand of the West Pier. I could scarce believe it had grown so late. Lighting the oil lamp that sat in a corner of the desk I returned to the document before me: it was a detailed description of how to apply the white phosphorus to the wires without accidentally setting them alight. The words blurred before me, I rubbed my eyes. "James, I'm going to take a walk down the hall."

"Roger," he said, not looking up from the paper he was reading as he sat on the floor, his back propped against the wall.

"What?"

"You called me Roger."

I regarded him with some degree of confusion, "No, I'm quite sure I called you James."

"Back on the street, when the man came at us."

"Did I?" I hadn't even thought about it, recalling the moment I could hardly remember what I had said, if anything.

"Yes."

I tilted my head a moment to better picture the scene, "I suppose I did."

"It was highly unprofessional. You need to be more careful. If someone had been watching my identity could have been revealed."

"Roger is hardly an uncommon name." I defended.

"Still, I would rather not take the risk."

Some internal part of me felt as though it had been deflated by his chastisement. "Here," Kneeling to the floor I placed the oil lamp beside him, "It's getting dark."

He glanced up from the paper, the lamplight dancing in his blue eyes, "Thank you."

A weird twitching arose within my chest; something in the way he looked at me left me quite unsettled though I could not say how or in what way. An old memory but one I could not recall clearly enough to guess at what left me troubled by it. I rose quickly, glad for the shadow to hide the flush on my cheeks.

"You should be getting back to your hotel to get some rest, we have an early morning tomorrow," he said, putting the paper he had been reading behind the others and taking up the next.

"And what about you?"

"I'll stay here and finish. I can sleep on the train." The shadows from the lamp somehow made him look so much older. Lines ran under his eyes accentuating the dark circles and drained cheeks that revealed his exhaustion; for the first time I noticed glints of silver in his black hair.

How old was he? I wondered as I ventured down darkening the hallway. I had never given a thought to his age before; only that he was older than me. But he had already been an adult when I had first encountered him at the age of eight. And he would not have been invited to my Uncle's supper party had he not, at least, attained the age of thirty by my Father's specific instructions. That was seven years ago. An unbelievable span when pondered at any length! Was he truly nearing forty? Or had he already surpassed that particular mark? Quentin and Dinah had celebrated their thirty-seventh year this past April and I had always gotten the impression that Roger was somewhat older than my fiance and his sister. And I, now twenty-five, soon to be twenty six - I had known of the man who sat with his back pressed against the wall reading in the other room for over two thirds of my life. "My spy" I remembered I had called him, thought of him, as I had watched him run from the family library so many years ago. I had conjured up so many fictions for him in my mind in those days, fantastical adventures - he was less a person than a magnificent literary character come to life for a brief visit and then gone back into the pages from whence he had sprung.

And now he was so very real to me that I could not recall I had ever recreated him as a playmate in the woods. He was to be Quentin's Best Man in my wedding. My wedding! A giddiness filled my senses. Tomorrow we would be off for London by the first train and then to Sutton-at-Hone for supper at my future home. I had not yet telegraphed our intended arrival! And I should send for Sarah - with all of us gathered Arthur would not dare impose. It would only do that we stay the week; though I could be sure Roger would wish to leave as soon as the Supper plates were clear. I glanced to the door as though the obnoxious man behind it could see my distaste for his anticipated rudeness through the solid oak. I was rarely so possessed by such a silliness in regards to the little rectory: but the very idea of having us all once more gathered beneath its bright wooden eaves filled me with so great a joy I found it difficult to contain.

I opened the door to the room, "James, I'm going out to send a few telegraphs-" As I turned to face him I found his head drooping, his chin laying against his chest while the papers hung limply from his hand, threatening to drop to his stomach at any moment. I shook my head, a gentle smile playing on my lips. As silently as might be managed given the detritus upon it I pulled the blanket from the bed and lay it over him. Taking the lamp I placed it on the end table beside the door on top of yet another sheep picture. Leaning over, I blew out the flame. "Goodnight Roger," I whispered as I quietly shut the door behind me.

* * *

Despite its humble state I was glad to get back to my room and throw myself to the mercy of the overstuffed duvet. Face buried in the pillows I bent my knees enough that I might reach near enough to my ankles that I could undo the laces, shaking my feet enough that each boot fell off in turn. I would change to my bedclothes in a few minutes, I just needed to rest a bit first. I turned over, pulling the covers over me so that they formed a fluffy cocoon. The telegraphs had gone well: Quentin was delighted to hear Roger and I would be visiting (as I expected he would be) and would be only too glad to pick up Sarah at the train station; Sarah was likewise glad to know where her mistress had been hiding as Mr. Wyndham had apparently been peppering her with inquiries these past few days and she had been at loss to explain how she might not know of her Lady's whereabouts for such an extended period. I recommended she plan to dress for company for, while she might only be a Lady's maid, she was considered as much a guest at the Underhill household as any Bishop might be and just as welcome at the Supper table. It was an indulgence the office of clergy could afford, I supposed, though the unfortunate girl had been most confused when first invited to join the household for meals. She had then inquired if Mr. Shaw would be attending as well - which, of course, she would ask for the poor thing was besotted. But then, I could not fault her for it - in the three years since I had met him, Russell had transformed from a slightly dumpy overgrown child with vaguely cherubic features to an almost painfully handsome young man possessing the self-assurance that came from excelling at a position that utilized his talents instead of stunting them. And, of course, he would be attending for he was almost a fixture of the household, particularly now that he had begun taking German lessons from Dinah (based on my correspondence with her he was proving a much more apt pupil than I had ever been, though she would never say such a thing) at the suggestion of the head of the organization.

I woke up some hours later, still in my clothes. Padding over to the window on sore feet, I surveyed the ocean before me, silver caps of waves shining in the pale light cast by the sliver of moon above. In the distance, dark shadows against the horizon marked the places where the piers still stood steadfast against the crashing waves of the sea. Had we arrived on any other day, even met at a later hour... some might ascribe such a thing to pure luck though I chose to assign it to Divine providence. To think all that had happened since I had looked out this very window only so many hours ago. Tomorrow promised to be at least as eventful even if those events were of far less dire consequence. Mentally I reviewed the contents of the hotel room, going over every document once more for any answers but none presented themselves, rather they only led to further questions. It would be a relief to consult with the German Intelligence branch to see if they might be able to shed further light on the mystery. I would be only too glad to let this case fall to them to solve. I strained to see The Lion Mansion beside us, but it was obscured by the corner of my hotel. I wondered if Roger had woken up and resumed his work or if he were still asleep against the wall. How much sleep had he gotten between here and Austria? He did not mention a hotel - had he come directly from the station? It was a case personal to him, he had lost friends to these people, knowing him he would pursue it with the same unrelenting determination he had pursued Chapman with. He was not going to attend the wedding. I smiled in spite of myself. To have such a selfish, silly thought at such a time as this! I should be glad if he merely survived and thankful my assistance might aid him. Quentin would be disappointed though, I thought with a smirk. Turning from the window I made my way back to the bed in hopes that I might yet seize a few more hours of sleep before morning.

* * *

The large stone stairway leading into the head office was unusually crowded by a number on well-dressed men in bowler hats, some of whom I recognized but most I had never seen before.

"Roger!" a man with a thick mustache wearing a gray suit called out from near the top of the stair as we reached the halfway point. The man ran down to meet us. "Haven't seen you in ages! Thought you had retired after the Chapman case."

"Family obligations - Lords do not have the same freedom that surgeons enjoy."

"That is true. I take it you got the message?"

"What message?"

"You don't know then?"

"No, at the moment I am at a complete loss."

"You'd best come with me then. I'll explain once we're inside." He drew up close to Roger and whispered conspiratorially, "There's been a bit of bad business in Europe, Granger sent out an order calling in all active agents." Finally noticing Roger was not unaccompanied, the man eyed me suspiciously, "And you are, Miss...?"

"This is Granger's goddaughter." Roger made a slight flourish of his hand toward me.

"I'm sorry Miss, but now is not the time for a social visit." The man attempted to wave me off in a manner I found to be a blatant affront to my dignity.

"My godfather has requested my presence specifically." I said through clenched teeth.

"I have been assigned to escort her to his office." Roger said.

The man appeared confused by this but shrugged, "I suppose, then, I'll leave him to tell you." He ushered us through the door into an office thrown into chaos. The place was filled with agents, more than I had ever seen in one place. Men stood at their desks furiously typing at telegraph machines, writing, or else talking to others with frustrated gesticulations of their arms. Two women whom I recognized as secretaries were running about, one with her hands full of letters which she was distributing as fast as she could manage, another, a young lady known as Miss Harper, had her arms full of spent telegraph paper. A group of men stood around a large map with dozens of red marks upon it. Miss Harper delivered the spent tape to them. I watched as one of the men, a portly, unpleasant chap I knew as Grimsby, read it and added three more marks to spots in central Europe.

Roger stopped the secretary who was handing out letters, "What's going on here, Gina?"

"Oh it's terrible, Lord Norbert! I can't... I can't..." an explosion of tears burst forth from her.

"There, there, I'm sorry. Could you tell Granger we have arrived?"

Gina, glad to be relieved of the duty of bearing whatever news awaited us, ran up the stairs to the agency head's office. A moment later, Granger stuck his head from the Office door.

"Roger, thank God you are here!" his high, authoritative voice echoed over the office. "Get up here, and bring my goddaughter with you as well." We did as we were told. I was relieved when the door closed on those staring eyes. Benjamin Malcolm Granger was a neat, thin, sharp featured man with thin silver hair that had not yet wholly overwhelmed the natural creamy brown. I often thought he reminded me of a Newspaper Editor more than the head of her Majesty's Secret Service. He was impeccably clothed in a greyish blue suit with golden buttons on the waistcoat, the jacket of which was hung over the back of his chair, his sleeves were rolled up exposing the forearms. His normally orderly office was in chaos: the desk completely covered in papers and telegraph tape which spilled onto the floor. He looked as though he had not slept since yesterday.  
I held something of a personal fondness for Granger. He was a pragmatic man with something of a paternal streak toward his younger agents - always keen to recognize and nurture talents. He had taken a shine to me in my early days, though even he had voiced serious reservations about the addition of a female agent to the team - but apparently Roger had written quite the letter of recommendation and with a yet unsolved case involving the very private, if treasonous, wife of an Earl creating quite a problem he had relented.

Now he regarded us seriously from his position standing behind his large desk.

"What's going on around here Granger?" Roger asked.

"I should ask you the very same. You're supposed to be dead."

"I think I would notice a thing like that."

Granger regarded Roger with some irritation. Clearly now was not the time for humor. Granger cleared a space off his desk revealing a map of Europe beneath, marked similarly to the one in the main office, "At 1:00 GMT there were coordinated attacks on our agents in Europe. Each of these marks represents an agent who was killed in the field."

"No!" Roger breathed, running a finger over the marks.

"We have called all our agents in, all those we could contact. For the past nineteen hours we've been making inquiries to local news sources, police agencies, even military bases about missing relatives, friends and the like."

"How many?"

"Reports so far say we have lost over one hundred agents, we believe there will be more."

"How many?" Roger repeated, more roughly this time.

Granger's hands balled into fists on top of the map where they had sat, he looked up from the map, a pained expression in his grey eyes, "We have not been able to make contact with a single agent on the continent."

Roger slowly collapsed backward into a chair.

"We believed you were dead. There was a report of a gas explosion at your apartment, they found the remains of a man inside. Despite the condition of the body they determined he had been shot once in the back of the head."

"The Landlord no doubt. I suspected he might be stealing from me. So the fire was used as a measure to attempt to hide my assassination. And the others?"

"Explosions, fires the same as your apartment. Mulligan was shot point blank in an alley, as was Owens - no one would think twice of a vagrant killed on the street so no effort was made to conceal them - we believe at least six were poisoned but we're still waiting. Adelbert's house in France was ransacked before they apparently attempted to set fire to the drapes but it failed to take. They found him in his study, throat slit."

"Are there any clues to the culprits?" Roger asked.

"Most of the reports don't mention any, but then they expect these were mostly accidents so they did not think to look. However, at Adelbert's house they found that strange symbol with the sheep painted in what was believed to be his blood covering the entirety of the Study wall."

"That is most distressing," I finally spoke, a line furrowed between my brows. "Was there any evidence the other locations were ransacked?"

"With the damage it would be impossible to tell."

"Was anything taken from Adelbert's house."

"We have reason to believe some documents were stolen but we cannot guess as to what their contents were."

"What of our Far Eastern Agents?"

"I've spoken with Collingsby and all but one are accounted for; and that one is undercover in Hong Kong and not expected to report until the end of the month."

"Then we can confidently infer there is something in Europe they don't want us seeing."

"Agreed," Granger said. "Which is precisely why I need you two. We suspect there is a traitor in our midst, if not more than one - it is the only way they could have gotten the location of our agents, but as of yet we have no leads as to who they might be or how they were able to communicate the information. Based on the confidential nature of the information the traitor must be very high up in the organization. Only those in this room know Agent Norbert and Agent Bond are one in the same, and for all anyone but us knows Agent Bond is now a very dead man and Agent Norbert is, for all intents and purposes, retired to Cumberland. Agent M," Granger fixed me with a somber look. "I know I must ask a lot of you. Aside from Bond, you are the only Agent whose identity is unknown within the Secret Service."

I knew what he was about to request even before he spoke the words. "But what about my family? If I am discovered won't they be in danger?"

"I won't lie that it is not a possibility. I cannot guarantee their protection."

"Miss Moore, they are already in danger. What if it had been them on the pier rather than us? It may very well be next time."

I winced, picturing Elizabeth running ahead, waving from the grandstand as she was wont to do, and suddenly fire ripping through the wood beneath her, engulfing her. "What do you need me to do?"

"Miss Moore, for the foreseeable future I am promoting you to International Field Agent. i know it is not a promotion you considered or sought but I ask for the good of your country that you would accept it. You and Bond will both be assigned to this case. I am sorry to say you will be on your own until we discover the source of the leak. Do not come to the office nor contact it through any direct channels. If you need to convey a message to me for any reason I ask that you would go through Mr. Shaw by way of Miss Moneypenny." He reached into his desk and withdrew a stack of paper bills. "Here is one thousand pounds to cover any expenses you may incur," he said, handing the money to Roger. "Take care and may God protect you." He ushered us out of the office.


	9. Chapter 9

We left headquarters in silence. Roger appeared as though he were almost in a trance of some sort. He did not even register the greetings of other Agents who recognized him from his home office days, he just walked, staring straight ahead, eyes wide and barely blinking in his pale face. Shock, most likely. I had no desire to broach the conversation, more concerned with my own affairs at the moment. It was not until we reached the little parsonage in Sutton-at-Hone that the silence was broken by the happy squeal of my dearest friend as she bolted out of the door poor old Mrs. Stuart had only just begun to open greeting me with a merry embrace while I was still only on the bottom step of the coach.

"I'm so glad you finally made it!" she said with a smile. She was a beautiful as ever, her ivory skin in contrast to the red of her lips and pale purple risen on her cheeks by the cold. I had to look twice to be sure I had seen what I thought I had. "Dinah, your hair!"

"Do you like it? It's much lighter." she said, shaking her head slightly so the ebony curls bounced gently on her shoulders.

"It's very... different. What possessed you to cut it?"

"I'm embracing my status as an eccentric old maid. I thought it would be cute and so I told the stylist to cut it all off."

"I thought I would hate it when she told me she had gotten it cut, but I think it rather suits her." Quentin spoke as he strolled up beside her, a quiet smile upon his face. "How are you, dearest?" he said, leaning over to place a kiss on my cheek.

"It's been a rather exhausting day, all told. But I am glad to be home."

"It does my heart good to hear you call it that. Roger, how do you do?"

"Still alive. Which is, apparently, rather remarkable in and of itself."

"Well that's quite a cryptic way to answer such a question." Dinah tilted her head slightly, as was her habit when contemplating that which was strange.

"I assure you it is not. But let us get inside before we freeze to death. We can discuss it in there."

"That warm spell did not last long, that is for certain." Quentin remarked, offering his arm as I dismounted from the last step with Roger following close behind.

"No, it did not."

"The first vestiges of Spring."

"Always the romantic." I said, favoring him with a kiss on the cheek as we entered through the door.

My bond with my future husband was quickly torn asunder by the loving administrations of my maid.

"Miss Moore, let me get your coat!" she cried, veritably ripping the garment off of me. "It's soaking wet!"

"It was snowy in town."

"Oh and look at your boots!"

I looked down to see those very objects coated in a fine crust of the ash they used to melt the snow in an impotent effort that, more often than not, only resulted in filthy snow. "Sarah there is no need to fuss so. I will be perfectly fine. The dirt will wear off in time." I could not have scandalized her more had I announced I was running away Prince Albert Victor (which, given the time I had spent with the man what I knew of his character, would scandalize myself as well!).

Mrs. Stuart took up the cause, shooing us from the room, "Now away with you all! I won't have you tracking such filth on my good clean rugs."

As I was ushered down the short hallway to my room I turned to see Quentin's mirthful visage chuckling behind me.

"You too! I'll not excuse you just because you are a gentleman." I heard the old woman say as she waved her hands at Roger. This scene was more than Quentin could take and he doubled over laughing.

"Go on James, do as your told." I added in a haughty tone, as though speaking to a child. This only caused Quentin to laugh all the harder is such a contagious manner we had soon all joined in the chorus, even Mrs. Stuart and Roger were unable to help themselves. Perhaps it might be called perverse, or at the very least inappropriate, to laugh so considering the circumstances. Or perhaps it was as a result of the mounting tension that what is human in us cried for it to be broken with levity in order to preserve our own lives. Whatever the cause or the accusation, after the strain of the morning it was good to see Roger laugh.

* * *

Supper brought with it a knock at the door. Mrs. Stuart opened it to reveal the shining face of Russel Shaw, partially melted snowflakes glistening on his cheeks. I rushed to greet him.

He dropped the sack he was carrying. "Mina!" the sizable young man cried, picking me up in a merry embrace, his top hat falling to the floor. "It has been far too long!"

"Only half a year. Put me down! I get dizzy at such heights!" He lowered me to the floor. "I swear you are an inch taller since last I saw you."

"An inch and a half." he remarked proudly as Mrs. Stuart took the opportunity to divest him of his coat and scarf.

"You had best be wary, you'll catch up to James at this rate."

"James?" Russell regarded me with some confusion.

"That would be me," Roger, who sat on the sofa in the sitting area, volunteered; raising a hand. "Sometimes Miss Moore forgets that in this house Christian names are acceptable."

"Oh I suppose I do, force of habit." I shot Roger a withering glare which he returned with a dashing smile. "Now then, how is your Grandmother faring these days?"

"Well, she had a rather nasty cold last month but she has since recovered completely. She asks about you often."

"Well do give her my regards, and tell her I will write her a proper letter soon. I heard Bess is lately a mother once again?"

"Yes! A boy this time! Donald Allen Moss, for her father."

"It's a good name. Give them my warmest regards." There was a pause, pregnant with a question unasked.

Russell leaned in so that only I might hear as he whispered, "He is well. He sends his regards."

"Thank you."

Russell leaned back and loudly declared, "Now then, do we have a new date set for the wedding yet?

"Not yet," Quentin answered.

"Well so long as this is not some ploy to make us wait so you can be a June bride." Russell teased.

"I believe it is," Roger put in. "She's snowed us all."

"It is not! What's so wrong with June, anyhow?"

Russell was all astonishment, "What's so wrong with June? The Golden Jubilee, you goose! You need to get your head out of those books and see the world sometimes."

"I wish you all the best in convincing her of that." Quentin said from the armchair at corner to Roger.

I chose to ignore my dear fiance. "I suppose I forgot. That would be a rather inconvenient time, wouldn't it then?"

"I should say so! At least if you want any of the Salvation Army to attend."

"I won't lie, I was hoping to be married before then anyhow," Quentin interjected again.

"Quentin, are you feeling jealous of Mr. Shaw getting all my attention." I said, strolling over to the man, I held out my hand which he took without getting up as I walked along behind him so my hand rested with his upon his shoulder.

"Well no man would blame me if I were, now would they?" he said as he gave my hand a kiss.

I leaned over so my lips were beside his ear. "Thank you, dear."

"Well, I suppose I should be off." Roger started to get up.

"So soon?" Dinah pouted. "But you must at least stay until after supper!"

"Really now Roger, since when did you become such a prude?" I teased. "Russell, do you have any new information on the situation?"

"Actually, I was going through the old telegraph transmissions and I think I might have found something important. It was a real to do getting it out of the office though." Russell said, picking up the sack and patting it.

"Dinner is re- Mr. Shaw! I didn't hear you come in!" Sarah stood in the doorway that led to the kitchen in an apron covered with the suggestions of what I guessed to be our dessert. Underneath their coating of smudged flour I could see her cheeks reddening until they were a fine high rosy color to match, almost exactly, the shade of her ears. "Just- just- I'll be back in a moment!" She turned to return to the safety of the kitchen.

"Wait, Miss Moneypenny!" Russell called, extending a hand after her. "I brought the jellied eels you wanted to try." She stopped in her tracks still facing the kitchen. "Gran made them herself. There's nothing like eel fresh from the sea." He opened the sack and produced a jar of the most vile looking pale bluish gray substance I had seen in my life inside which floated grey horseshoe-shaped objects filled with puffy white sacs. It was not that I had never seen jellied eels before, just that I preferred to forget their ghastly look as soon as they had disappeared from my view. Sarah seemed frozen in place, even at this distance I could observe her quivering hands.

"Well go on Sarah, don't be rude. The man has brought you a gift." I admonished my maid.

She managed to uproot one shaking leg from its spot and, now free, she was able to hurry over, eyes fixed on her shoes, to take the jar. But this only compounded the problem for now she stood before him like a scared child.

"Well go on and thank the man."

"Thank you." she said, glancing up. This was an error on her part for once her eyes met his, a bashful grin broke across his face and she was once more transfixed. How Lord Bond had managed to seduce such a silly child was beyond my comprehension.

"Would you like some tea?" she blurted out. Tea. Of course when an English person could think of nothing to say an offer of tea would still come tripping from their tongue.

"I would love some."

"What kind?"

"Jasmine, if you have it."

"Jasmine." Sarah repeated, a red blush rising so powerfully that now the flour appeared unnaturally white upon it. Poor Sarah, the man might as well simply come out and propose. She turned on heel to go back into the kitchen.

"Oh, and Sarah," I called to her.

"Yes, Miss?" She turned toward me so quickly she had not fully accounted for the continuing forward momentum and lost her balance, tripping over her own feet. Quentin instinctively sprung to her aid but before he had even cleared his chair he sat back down, confident she was already in good hands.

"Are you alright?" Russell asked, cradling her in his arms still at the angle inwhich she had been caught.

"Yes, I-I-I think so." She seemed wholly unable to decide what to do with her hands for a moment - the fingers stuck out stiffly and then slowly melted onto his upper arms.

Russell returned her to her upright position but his hands still lingered a moment on her arms.

"Sarah," I continued my order. "When you are finished with Mr. Shaw's tea would you please clean up for supper. I cannot have you sitting at the table looking like a scullery maid."

"Yes, Miss." She bowed low before rushing from the room.

"I had better get ready for supper as well." Russell said, a smile plastered upon his face as he hurried to the toilet room.

"You did that on purpose." Roger whispered to me.

"I merely did not want flour on the table cloth was all." I said as innocently as I could muster, the grin of the unrepentant guilty forcing its way across my face.

* * *

"So Granger has had me learning German and French. He tells me it is so that I can create more complex codes but I think he's plotting to promote me again." Russell said, shoving a large portion of whitefish in his mouth.

"He probably wants to make you an agent." Roger said.

"Don't be daft. You can't possibly think... Do you really suppose?"

"Well, if he hadn't been planning to, he is now," Roger supplied without even looking up from the remnant of fish he was slicing up. "He'd be a fool if he wasn't."

Russell pulled back from his plate, leaning his muscular frame heavily against the chair so that it creaked in protest. "Blimey," he said, thunderstruck.

"Perhaps he should have been certain your knowledge of the Queens English had been completed first before he added other languages to the mix."

"Roger, don't be rude." I admonished my fellow spy.

"Well, I'm glad of it," Dinah said. "It has given me something to do on these cold winter nights."

"I can't thank you enough for it. They think I'm brilliant down at headquarters, but it's all on account of having a brilliant tutor."

"You're too kind." Dinah attempted to dismiss his words but a faint rose colored her cheeks as Mrs. Stuart took up the plates.

"No, only honest. Before you started helping me I was ready to restart the hundred years war just so I would not have to figure out how to pronounce words with so many letters, half of which you aren't even supposed to say."

"Then you would need to learn it all the more quickly," I teased.

"It is true though, Dinah is becoming quite the teacher," Quentin spoke up as he dished the pudding onto his plate. "I've lately been contemplating opening up a girls' school in the house. Would that be of interest to you, dear?"

"I'm not sure my areas of expertise would endear me to their parents," I teased.

"Well, they would be very young. And even girls need their numbers and sciences, despite what others may say." He glanced pointedly at Roger.

"I don't know what you mean to imply," Roger answered the accusation with a bite of pudding, a canned tangerine and cream trifle it occurred to me I had not yet tasted while Roger had nearly finished his.

"I'll consider it," I said.

"You would rather jump from a bridge into the river Thames - is that the correct interpretation?" Quentin asked, for the sake of clarification.

"On the coldest day of the year, yes," I said taking another bite of the lovely little concoction before me.

"Well, I believe that settles your part in it."

Mrs. Stuart appeared to take away the pudding dishes from all but for Dinah who had, as was her custom, not partaken.

Roger leaned back in his chair, "So, what is this information you have for us Mr. Shaw?"

"Ah! Just a moment!" Russell grabbed his bag and dumped the contents onto the table. Thick ribbons of paper spooled out across the flat surface like so many octopus tentacles.

I picked up a ream and looked at it, "So what exactly am I supposed to be seeing here, Russell?"

"I thought it was just an error in the wireless machine we've been testing out. Because it's new technology I didn't think anything of it at first." He indicated to some strange markings on the paper. "You'll see there are some unusual jumps in the low frequency that should not be there. I noticed this would happen at regular intervals throughout the day so I adjusted my transmitter to a lower frequency and I got these results." He dug through the pile until he produced a piece of tape. "068 46.959338 7.455288 007 48.240355, 16.406322 364 48.833550, 2.330738 021 49.410648, 8.689685," he read. "But I can't make heads or tails of them."

Roger visibly paled as the numbers were rattled off.

"May I see that tape?" He reached a shaking hand toward the strip of paper. Russell gave it over to him.

"What's the matter, Roger?" I asked.

"007 is me. It was James's old international designation - they passed it on to me when he died so no one would realize there had been a change. These numbers after it are my coordinates in Vienna. 021 is in Paris, probably Owens or LeBlanc - they are both newer agents, I'm less familiar with their numbers, the first set is Switzerland - if I recall correctly. I was not aware Gerard Bligh had been moved there, he was only in Prussia last month."

"When did you intercept that transmission?" I asked.

"Last week. I first noticed it a month ago."

"You said you are only in the testing phase of the wireless?"

"Yes. The technology is still experimental, we can't even get it to work outside of a mile radius, but if we can get it to work at long distances we won't have to worry about lines being cut anymore. It seems insane that our whole operation should be at the mercy of a pair of hedgeclippers."

"How many people are working on this project?"

"Six, including myself. Hawthorne, Morgan, Trefoil, Danzer, and Donovan."

"Were any of them absent today?"

"Morgan and Trefoil were."

"Has anyone been able to contact either of them?"

"No, but the flu's been going around. I had it only two weeks ago. I know I wasn't answering any messages."

"Who is the supervisor of the project?" Roger demanded.

"Simon Sperry."

"What kind of man is he?"

"Not much to say about him. I don't think he knows an electromagnetic wave from a light wave. But I've only met him a handful of times. Mostly he leaves everything up to Wilson."

"Who is Wilson?"

"Herbert Wilson. Our project manager. Brilliant, really brilliant."

"He would know what frequencies you were using, would he not?"

"Yes... but I've never seen him use the device himself without the rest of us watching. That would be the type of thing I'd notice."

"If he was smart he wouldn't have to. Are there any members of the department he works more closely with than others?"

"None that I can think of - Oh Hell!"

"What is it?" I asked.

"Morgan's machine has been breaking down a lot these past few weeks, so Wilson's been in to fix it at least half a dozen times."

"Was Wilson there on the 23rd?" Roger asked.

"No, but now that you mention it, Mr. Sperry came by early in the morning."

"Did he speak to Morgan?"

"No... not specifically. He just asked a few questions about the machines to the lot of us and left."

"Does he usually come in and ask questions?" I asked.

"At the beginning of the month, just to see how the project is progressing. I don't think he understands a word of what we're saying."

"I wonder how he got the position then?" I said aloud.

"I heard he asked for it specifically and Granger gave it to him because they served in the war together or some such garbage. Can't imagine what Forster would do in a war."

I could not imagine the thin, balloon-headed man able to do much more than drink tea and polish off his steam-fogged wire-rimmed spectacles, myself.

"I would not underestimate Sperry, from what little I know of his history he was lauded as one of the more brilliant tacticians in Crimea." Roger said, his aspect deadly serious.

"Might we see the tape from yesterday?" I asked.

"Yes. It's this one I think." Russell rifled through the pile producing a long strip of paper. We gathered together to see.

"What's this line here?" Quentin asked, pointing to a sudden spike that covered the whole width of the tape followed by a a blank space.

"There was an electromagnetic pulse; knocked out all of our equipment. I think my ears are still ringing from it."

"What time?" Roger demanded.

"I wasn't paying attention. A little before lunch I guess, maybe 11:00? I was more concerned with fixing the equipment than looking at the clock. It took hours to get it working again. I didn't eat until supper!"

"Well that would explain why it seemed the hunger of the world was upon you." Dinah said.

"Hmmm," Roger leaned his chin against his hand. "They must have used the pulse as the execution order."

"Do you think it was Mr. Wilson's doing?" I asked.

"Not alone, if he knew about the plot at all. I'm guessing Sperry was the mind behind this plan, but whether Wilson or Morgan were aware of their part in the plot is hard to say. Even then, I'm not certain Sperry is the top of the chain. Only someone of a very high rank would know the positions of our agents. Do you have any idea where the messages were sent to?"

"No. It would have had to have been somewhere close, the machines only have the power to transmit maybe one thousand feet from the building, but anyone with a matching receiver could pick up the signal so long as they knew the frequency it was being sent on," Russell said.

"So basically, we could not even begin to trace the outside man." Roger did not even attempt to hide the bitterness of his tone.

"That would be why they used it. It really is a brilliant plan when you consider it." Quentin spoke with some degree of admiration that would have been off-putting if not for my knowledge of his character. It was a shiny new toy and whether used for good or ill he could not help but lust after its potential in his hands.

"It does mean we really must wholly divorce ourselves from headquarters. Whomever this group is that has infiltrated them, they are in very deep." I said.

"Which does remind me," Roger said pulling a folded piece of paper from his pocket that I recognized at once as the drawing Paul Brady had given me. That horrible thief! When had I even given him the chance to steal it from my bag? "We haven't been able to make heads or tales of this thing? Any ideas?"

Quentin took the piece of paper and examined it with Dinah peering over his shoulder.

"Well the Latin is a rather common religious inscription that is often translated as 'Behold the Blood of the Lamb'."

"We had figured that part out for the most part." Roger interrupted.

"I would hope you would have. I doubt I need to explain the meaning."

"No."

"This is strange though. The image of a sheep is typically used to represent Christ but when used in conjunction with the 'A' it is usually a symbol of the Anabaptists."

"Who are the Anabaptists?" I asked, curiosity peaked.

"I wouldn't expect you to know them. They were a religious movement that arose in Switzerland and Germany during the Reformation. They were mostly wiped out but for a remnant that became the Mennonites. But they are pacifists. As to the K and M, I cannot even guess to their meaning."

"K M," Dinah repeated, straightening up. She began to shake her hands as if the action might spur her memory of something she had once held within them. It was a queersome habit all her own but it seemed effective for she had recalled many a fact by first recalling the object which had led to its knowing. "K M"

"You have an idea, Dee?" Quentin asked, laying the image on the table.

"Something I read once. In one of those German histories. There was something... an uprising... I remember being surprised because the Mennonites are so peaceful but apparently the Anabaptists were quite the opposite..." she stared blankly ahead. She had found the page in her mind and was now searching its contents. "There was an uprising in one of the major cities... they held it for almost a year..." Her eyes flew wide open, "Konigsreich Munster! That's what they called it! 'The Kingdom of Muenster'! And here! The way they arranged the circle with the two lines that form the sides of the 'A' that's like the symbol van Leiden adopted after he declared himself King!" She hastily drew a globe, a small cross on the top, with two swords crossed behind it next to the image original image.

Quentin swore.

I gasped in shock, echoed by both Dinah and Sarah. The men stared at him dumbfounded. In the seven years I had known my fiance I had never once heard any vulgarity fall from his lips. Given the reaction of Roger and Dinah I could assume that they were just as much strangers to the phenomenon.

"What is it, dear?" I mustered.

"The Munsterites." He stood and began to pace the room. He stopped, placing both hands on the back of the chair, staring once more at the piece of paper. He swore again.

"What exactly are the Munsterites?"

"They were a radical sect of the Anabaptists. In February of 1534 the staged an uprising in the German city of Muenster and succeeded in taking the city and installing their own council on February 23." He fell back into his seat, head lolling slightly on his shoulders.

"Oh damn it all!" Roger cursed. No more needed to be said for we all knew what the other was thinking. It had been an announcement. A perverse celebration of treachery.

"Why Muenster?" I asked.

"They were millinerials. Their prophets claimed Munster would be the seat from which Christ would rule when He came down from heaven and that the city must be purified for His second coming."

"The Munsterites were merciless. Ruthless in their demand of perfect obedience to their insane king, van Leiden. They executed men and women the same. They instituted communal property and polygamy. It was madness," Dinah provided. "Praise God the Prince was able to retake the city a year later."

"The cages containing the bones of the leaders still hang from St. Lambert's tower as a reminder," Quentin finished. "If this group is drawing inspiration from them... This is very grave indeed."

"A religious cult?" I asked.

"With certainty. One that believes in murder as a means of purification of the world. They will feel no compunction to kill if they believe it necessary to advance Christ's coming."

Roger took a deep breath, letting the air out in a loud sigh, "Then I suppose Muenster should be our first stop."

"I suppose so." I agreed.

Quentin seemed to snap back to life at this statement. "Mina, if this group is truly patterning themselves off of the Munsterites I cannot allow you to go. It's too dangerous."

"Nonsense. I'll make certain nothing happens to her. You have my word," Roger said.

"You'll pardon me if I take very little reassurance in your word. I would trust you with my life without a second's thought, but this is my wife we're discussing."

I flushed crimson at the invocation of wifehood.

"She is your fiance!" Roger corrected with rather more force than was necessary.

"I have sworn an oath of fidelity to her as her future husband and I'll not let you or anyone else put the woman I love in danger!"

The walls shook from his words, bringing Mrs. Stuart to the kitchen doorway.

Roger scoffed, "She'll be in worse danger here if we don't stop this cult. I swear she will be perfectly safe!"

"Forgive me but you have a rather bad history of protecting the fiances of members of this family!"

Dinah gasped. Mrs. Stuart scurried for cover within the walls of the kitchen once more. I have never seen Quentin so angry before and a part of me trembled from the shock of it.

"I had nothing to do with that as you are fully aware!" Roger shouted.

"It should have been you on the case. He took it so you could go home and attend the birth of your niece! You think I don't know?" he shouted.

"It was his choice to take the case. He knew the risks, as does Mina!"

Quentin stood between Roger and I now, his nose only inches from Roger's. "I won't let her go with you!"

"Until the day she says 'I do' she does not belong to you!" Roger's eyes flashed with fury, "And she can do as she damn well pleases!"

Quentin raised an arm as if to throw a punch, I grabbed it with both of my own.

"Roger! Quentin!" I shouted. "Stop it the both of you."

"You can't go Mina, I won't let you." Quentin's voice was no longer so loud as he turned to me.

"Dearest, I have to." I said, still holding his arm.

"You can barely even speak German."

"I'm sure it will become easier once I am surrounded by it."

He held my forearms in his hands, regarding me with pleading eyes, "Please don't. I couldn't bear to lose you."

"I must, it could be Chester, or Elizabeth, or you next time. How could I bear living knowing I might have done something and chose not to out of my own selfishness?"

He looked to the floor before taking a deep breath, "If you go, then I go. Wherever you lead I shall follow."

"You can't!" Roger objected.

"And you can't stop me," he answered.

"You know nothing of being a spy, you'll get yourself killed."

"I know nothing? Having built most of your arsenal? Having consulted on scores of cases over the course of almost a decade? The fact of the matter is that is anyone should accompany you it is I. I speak German almost as well as Dinah and I know far more of religion than you ever shall."

"Fine." Roger finally conceded after a moment's thought.

"Then I am coming as well." the determined voice of a woman declared from behind me.

"Dinah, no! You can't!" I exclaimed.

"Without you and my brother what hope do I have on this earth? To tend to the final years of an old man and then to spend the rest of my days praying for death? How could I be expected to live a life without life? Better to risk death in the hopes that I might be of some use. I have my own savings, you can no more stop me from going than Quentin. And, unlike Roger, I am familiar with the Westphalian dialect. With four of us we would appear far less suspicious and outside of this house no one from the secret service even knows we exist. With or without your permission I will go to Muenster just the same."

"She is right," I whispered to Roger. "After yesterday they will be expecting us. They would be less likely to suspect a group of travelers than two individuals. And she speaks German better than even you."

"Damn it all! Fine. She can go as well," Roger finally relented.

"Sarah, would you mind terribly staying at the parsonage and tending to Rev. Underhill until we return?" I asked, turning to my maid who was still trembling from the violence of Roger and Quentin's words. "I will leave a letter of reference for you with Mrs. Stuart in case the worst should happen."

"Yes, Miss." Sarah's eyes glistened but she held herself straight.

"Russell, if we need anything we will contact you. Until then, please watch over the house while we are away."

"Yes, Mina. Please be careful out there."

"Now then, I believe there has been enough excitement for the night and we all have letters to write."

"Letters?" Dinah asked, confused.

"For your loved ones, in case you don't return," Roger answered, grim-faced.

"Goodnight, Russell," I bid the young man as he silently gathered up his coat. "I'll see you soon."

He manged a small smile as he regarded the lot of us, "Goodnight." And with that, he left the house, shutting the door behind him.


	10. Chapter 10

I stared into the darkness above me listening to the soft sound of Dinah's snores in the berth only feet away on the other side of the tiny room. We had been fortunate that the Ferryman had been willing to make a final trip this evening; though not so fortunate that he did not request special compensation for his efforts at a price we preferred not to discuss in front of the Underhills. Tired from the train ride and lulled by the gentle rocking of the waves, Dinah had fallen asleep almost immediately; a feat I dearly wished to accomplish but found I was not equal to the task. My mind (that vile traitor) refused to allow my body to drift off, instead seeking to shift through the events of the past few days. And of those there had been so many! It kept leaping from one to the other in no particular order, only adding to my sense of unease. Finally, certain that sleep and I would remain strangers for the rest of the ferry ride, I decided to get some air on the deck.

As I arose from the depths I saw a short way off toward the port bow, leaning on his elbows against the ship's rail, silhouetted by pale light from above, the trim figure of Lord Roger Norbert. Next to him Quentin stood in the exact same manner; a shorter, more stout mirror image. Both were staring out toward the black horizon with nary a word nor glance passing between the two of them. Though nothing was being said I could not feel I was somehow intruding on something deeply intimate. I turned and made my way to via the starboard route to the stern of the little steamer, watching as the propellers made little bubbling trails in the shifting plane of stars. The glint on the wave crests undulated peacefully. I could still see a speck of light from the great ghostly sentinel of Dover blinking its farewell. Would I ever lay eyes upon it again? Something about this mission had terrified Quentin more than any other had - something so terrible he had refused to let me go without him (or with him, were the truth plainly stated, for if he had possessed the ability to stop me I was certain he would have). On any other case he had only expressed the sincerest trepidation but with a faith that I would be equal to whatever horror might cross me. I heard the sound of footsteps descending the stairs to the lower deck.

Strolling to the bow I found Roger still in the same aspect as before. I sidled up to him in silence. We stood, both staring out into the blackness. Through the dark a minuscule spot of light began to announce its presence, so tiny it was easy to think it a trick of the moon on the waves. The Phare de Calais. I had seen it in my younger days, though only in the harsh light of day. A giant black-headed gull bound to land, sights set permanently on the open skies above. It had been a delight to me as a child to imagine such things. Today it was shrouded by darkness, beckoning us. A motion from my left caught my attention. Roger had shifted his gaze to the dark water below.

"It was my case," he said.

"Oh?"

"It was supposed to be a simple investigation of some unusual letters coming from Russia. A common enough thing, to be sure, but with the war going poorly... Paranoia regarding leaks to Russian agents was on the rise. We might see dozens of suspected cases in a week only to find it was someone's grandmother or cousin or something equally mundane. James was on leave from Kenya, his transfer to Belgium had just been approved. A man in his first year of marriage should be close to home. He could have retired then and there but try and suggest such a thing and he would have a fit. He was too young to waste away as a stodgy old Lord in some stuffy estate in the highlands. During his leave it came time for my sister to be delivered. She was two months early. James volunteered to take over my case while I went to tend to her. She delivered twins, a boy and a girl. But the boy was weak. By the time I arrived he had already passed and the girl was fading. It was too early, the doctor said. Of course my sister was overcome with grief. I remember the first time I saw the baby in her pram - such a little poppet, the size of a small puppy. She looked up at me with the brightest eyes, though. I knew from the moment she wrapped her tiny fingers around the tip of my littlest finger she would survive despite the Doctor's warnings. I remained two months at the family estate before I received the letter from the Underhills that James had gone missing. I never told them that the delivery was early or that we lost one." Roger shifted his gaze to the stars.

"Why didn't you? They would have understood."

"They would have been too understanding. They would have told me not to come, to stay with my sister - and that I could never do. James was practically a brother to me and it was on my behalf he had vanished. And when they found out about James's death they were so shattered it seemed easier to let them put some of that pain on myself. To a degree, I felt I deserved it. I suppose Quentin still holds it against me. But then he was particularly close to James. James was the first person to truly recognize his abilities as anything other than the future curate. They held each other's confidence in a way I shall never replace. Even after all these years."

"He never told me."

"He wouldn't."

No, he wouldn't. In truth, it had been the first time Quentin had mentioned James since his death. There had been moments, early on, little things: a particular word, a tool, a date, a turn of phrase, when his sister turned down sugar in her tea or pudding - when a deep sadness seemed to touch him. I had not even considered how James's death had affected him. He would not have wished me to. I had grown to accept that even as his wife there were parts of him I would never be privy to, fathoms I would never be allowed to plumb the depths of. And Dinah was much the same. Between the pair of them there existed a great world into which only they might venture. I stared at the little speck of light growing ever stronger.

"You should get some sleep," Roger finally broke the silence.

"I'm not tired."

"No, you are exhausted. I know your face too well to be fooled by mere words."

"What are we to do with them?" I attempted to change the subject.

"I've been considering a few ideas. If they are going to insist on being part of this we might as well make use of them."

I didn't care for the utilitarian way he spoke of our dearest friends but he was right: they would never consign themselves to a hotel room for the duration of the investigation. If they were not included in the plans they would only become a nuisance. "Anything you would care to share with me?"

"Nothing specific. But perhaps we might be able to use your German heritage."

"How do you know I'm German?"

"I can see it in the set of your jaw."

Almost unconsciously I touched the squared joint below my ear; suddenly very self-conscious about the feature of my mixed heritage I had only just begun to make peace with. It galled me far more than any other part since it's emergence from the soft, round flesh of youthful cheeks for it always called to mind with painful clarity a long buried memory. _Princess._ I fought the low hiss of the name back down into the abyss. "It would be more useful if I could speak German better."

"I'm not certain that is true. It gives you an unstudied air that makes you seem less suspicious. You'll never pass for German, but perhaps as one visiting the land of their ancestors..."

"Or visiting family," I mused aloud. "It would be reasonable to bring my fiance to meet relatives before the wedding for after travel might not be so easily accomplished. And his sister would be the natural choice to accompany us as a chaperon given my own family cannot accompany us in light of my father's illness."

"And what would my role in this little farce be?"

"You have been living in Austria these past two years so you would be able to readily pass as a fellow countryman; I suppose you could act as my Uncle."

"Uncle?"

"You are what? Thirteen years my senior?"

"Fifteen."

"Fifteen, then." Forty-two. I congratulated myself on having so cleverly obtained his age. It was an insignificant thing, but still a gain on the man who always seemed to know so much about myself yet always played the enigma regarding his own affairs. "Given that, it would be difficult to believe you a cousin."

"Still, an Uncle seems rather old."

"James, I never knew you were one to be given to vanity over sense."

"All men are and it is best you understand that now."

I ignored his protest, venturing on, "Perhaps I will call you Johan..."

He scowled.

I blithely continued as if I were completely oblivious to his clear disdain. "Yes, I quite like the sound of that. Uncle Johan. Very German. Johan... Kepler, I suppose it would be. That being the name of my mother's family. We could say you were named for our distant relative Johannes."

"Suddenly you make a good deal more sense within your family."

I blushed at the unexpected compliment, "Thank you."

"Well, they do say witchcraft tends to pass down through family lines."

"You!" I rounded on him. He managed to dodge a slap intended for his smug face.

"Clearly though, clairvoyance does not. You know, you did not have to take the Devil's first offer. They say he likes to bargain," he teased as he managed to dodge a number of blows. My fist froze mid-swing, impeded by his hand which gripped the wrist tightly. I tried with the other hand, only to have it similarly captured. He raised both my hands above my head as he drew closer until we were almost nose to nose, a mocking grin upon his face.

"Let me go!" I tried to force my hands from his grip but to no avail. He easily had me overpowered.

"Uncle?" He raised his brow.

"Fine! You may be a cousin!"

"Much better," he said, releasing my hands.

"Once removed!" I cried as I made a mad dash for the stairs. He grabbed for me but I managed to spin out from his hand as it brushed against my waist. I was halfway down the stairs before I turned to find him almost where I left him, but for a step or two, looking at me with an expression of bemusement. I managed to suppress a childish urge to stick my tongue out at him and was suddenly extremely relieved there were no other passengers aboard to witness the scene.

"I see you have taken my advice to retire," He called from where he stood. "Good then. Pleasant dreams, Miss Moore."

* * *

The landing and subsequent train ride exist in small pieces of hazy memories. I slept more soundly than I had in days, even months, awakening only by the gentle bidding of my fiance and his sister and just as soon falling asleep again. I have only the vaguest recollection of a station as we waited to transfer to another train during which time Quentin bought me a some sort of pastry but I cannot remember what it tasted like or even whether I ate it or not before I fell asleep leaning against his shoulder.

I regained my full faculties sometime later alone in a small room I took to be an inn. The white plaster walls were lit by large golden squares of unencumbered light coming in from a single curtainless window. The frame of the window had once been painted but much of that paint had chipped off leaving a mottled surface of pale brown and white. In the far corner beside the window a short wooden dresser had been embellished with a mirror to form something of a vanity; upon the surface of which sat a large pale yellow bowl with miniature flowers painted around the rim, accompanied by a creamy white water pitcher with a scene, painted in blue, of trees overlooking farmland. Beside my bed stood a small rough-edged endtable of ancient design with a gas lamp, glass encrusted with soot within which a spider seemed content to continue its weaving. As my eyes adjusted I found my bedside companion was not alone for cobwebs littered the corners of the room. "Well, at least I won't want for a bandage if I cut myself," I muttered to no one but the little arachnid blithely spinning away in the old lamp. I slithered from my bed to the floor keeping the quilt wrapped about me, not desiring to leave its warmth for the chill of the late winter air. Looking out the cracked window pane I was surprised to see not a city before me, but a pastoral scene of such bucolic splendor it would have given John Constable reason to weep for joy. The place I was in was not an Inn, but a cottage set on the very edge of a forest that, in the ensuing years since the house was last attended to, now threatened to enfold the little structure into its verdant embrace. In the distance a patchwork of farms covered the landscape separated by long stands of trees, on a low hill I could just make out a man tilling his fields in preparation for the Spring planting.

My senses becoming clearer I became aware of voices from behind the door. Opening it I was overcome by the warmth eminating from the diminutive room that seemed designed to serve as both kitchen and parlour. Dinah and Roger sat at an old table near the brick fireplace sipping on tea and speaking politely. Upon hearing the squeak of the door hinges both turned their attention toward me.

"Oh good, you're finally awake." Roger said, turning back to his tea.

"Pay no attention to him, he only woke up an hour ago." Dinah said, getting up from her seat and divesting me of my blanket.

"Yes, but I was awake for the entire journey."

"Quentin is still in bed," she continued, ignoring Roger. "Would you like a cup of tea, Mina? You can have my seat if you want it. I was about to start preparing an early dinner anyway."

"Thank you, that would be lovely."

She frowned a bit as she poured the black liquid into the cup, "It's some rather old Frisian, I believe it was left by the last occupants of the house so the taste is a bit stale."

"It's alright, any sort of tea would be heaven at this moment," I said, seating myself in the warm wooden chair Dinah had only just vacated. "Just where are we anyway?"

"Coerde, a little less than a mile and a half from Muenster proper. This is an old safe house, but it's been out of use for so long I doubt anyone would recall it to look. Even the vagrants don't give much thought to it," Roger answered, taking a sip of tea.

Dinah placed a cup of unpleasant smelling liquid in front of me. I took a sip and winced from the flavor: something akin to dried out leaves and paper.

"I tried to warn you," she apologized.

"It would not be surprising if that tea were almost as old as you are," Roger said. "Anyhow, this place should do for our purposes. At the very least it will be private."

"The very least." I frowned, surveying the room. "We may want to acquire two more chairs." For the table and two chairs comprised the whole of the furnishings for it but for a large black pot that sat beside the fireplace and a kitchen consisting of an ancient step top stove a counter that more resembled a table with doors a small cupboard that hung from the wall a few feet above the counter and a motley assortment of black iron cookware.

"There's no need to trouble yourself with supper, Dinah," Roger said, as he watched Dinah searching through the cupboards for the basic elements of food. "I was thinking we might go into town to eat, once Quentin has awoken. Would you approve, Miss Moore?"

A shriek came from the kitchen, followed by the clattering of pans falling to the floor. I turned my head just in time to watch a mouse scurry across the countertop and down to a hole near the floor.

Dinah stood laughing with her hand on her heart amidst a sea of black cookware. "Well, that gave me quite a start! Unless you are in the mood for roasted mice, I believe we should take Roger up on his offer."

"It is a Roman delicacy. Quentin might approve," I laughed.

"Approve of what?" Quentin emerged from his room, eyes still bleary, holding a towel against his face. I instantly turned to my tea at the sight of him, my face burning less from the heat of the fire than from the fact he was naked from the waist up, his hair stuck up on one side like a bottle brush. "Is everything alright in here? I thought I heard a scream."

"Mice for dinner," Dinah supplied. "When I was searching the cabinet one decided to make itself known. It gave me quite a scare. Mina tells me it's a Roman delicacy."

"Dormice dear." Quentin came over and bestowed a kiss upon my cheek which only served to make my face redder for his proximity. "Regular mice are far too small. Do we have tea?" he asked, looking at my steaming cup.

"You could call it that. But it's not much for flavor," his sister answered.

He took my cup and sampled the contents, then grimaced, "Pity. Just some warm water for me, then. Something to sip on. I'm going to finish getting ready, if you don't mind?"

"Not at all."

"We'll be going out for dinner, so dress appropriately," Roger added.

"Very good, I'll be out in a few minutes."

I sat mutely through the conversation, staring straight ahead, waiting for the sound of the door announcing Quentin's return to his room.

Roger chuckled. "Miss Moore really now, you look like a strawberry. Can you honestly tell me you have never seen your intended barechested before?"

I was momentarily too flustered to speak which further amused Roger. Finally finding my voice I managed to stammer, "Well, there has never been occasion for me to see him in such state."

"Really, you are such a child!"

"I would think that rather a compliment," Dinah interjected. "It speaks to her virtuous nature."

"I thought you had brothers?"

"I do, but that does not mean they walk about the house half dressed!" Mother would murder them if they even so much as thought of leaving their rooms in so little as their shirtsleeves, which would be merciful compared with what Father would do were they to go about dressed in any manner that was even the least bit indecorous.

"So, where should we go for supper?" Dinah cut in, attempting to change the subject.

I gratefully took up the topic, "Someplace near the center of town would be best, so we can walk around a bit after we've finished. Perhaps by the church."

"It would be rather bold of them to be at the place where their founders still hang," Roger mused.

"Which is precisely why they will be there."

* * *

We strolled down the brightly lit roads of Muenster as a light snow fell about the city as people bustled about looking into windows and talking merrily in words I could only partially understand. In the city square a few young men played in a brass quartet while a woman accompanied them on guitar, a hat sat in front of them where the occasional passerby would drop a coin or two. A mime stood in front of a crowd pretending at something I could not wholly guess due to the number watching. Though it was quite past Christmas there was an air of it still in the square.

"It must be a Feast Day." Roger smirked.

"What do you mean?" I asked, perplexed.

"Muenster is a Catholic town and, as you might recall, this past Wednesday marked the beginning of Lent."

This I did not recall at all.

Roger continued, "However, Catholics celebrate a number of Feast Days honoring their saints which allow them to break the Fast. There, look, it's some Franciscan." He pointed to a portrait, rather crudely done, of a man in a brown robe with the most peculiar haircut. He resembled a thinner version of the images of Friar Tuck from my old storybooks.

"So that is where they put the leaders of the rebellion?" I asked, indicating three large metal cages that hung from the imposing edifice of the cathedral.

"Yes," Quentin answered. "As a warning to anyone who might dare try to repeat those mistakes."

"While I can understand the sentiment, it seems a bit barbaric."

"Every culture must indulge a little barbarism from time to time, if only to remind them of how far they have advanced. They have the cages and we have the exhibition of torture chambers in the bowels of the Tower of London."

"There!" Roger pointed at a man standing near the side of the building attempting to hand out pamphlets to passersby. He was handsome, striking even with well defined dark features. He wore no hat upon his black hair which was parted in the middle and pushed back behind the ears though a number of strands had loosed themselves brushing the sides of his cheekbones. No coat covered his shoulders despite the cold, nor was any scarf wrapped around his neck. The only covering he had, a shirt and vest, appeared slightly irregular, as though handspun and loom woven. He was speaking but I could not wholly make out what he was saying, though he seemed to be doing it with a great deal of passion.

"I see him."

"Do you think he's one of them?" Quentin asked.

"He's dressed in the same manner as the man we apprehended in Brighton," Roger supplied. "Miss Moore, you and Dinah get closer, talk to him if you can."

"Why Mina and Dinah?" I caught the protective note in Quentin's voice.

"He'll be less likely to suspect women of surreptitiousness. Particularly an uncommonly beautiful woman such as Miss Underhill. He is still a man, afterall. He'll be more likely to speak openly to her and Mina than you or I."

"We'll be close by, if you need any assistance at all," Quentin offered.

"There's no need to worry so, we'll be fine," I said in an attempt to reassure him, but still he looked wary.

"You are the two most important women in my life - it would be impossible that I should not worry," he said, brushing a warm, gloved hand against my snow encrusted cheek. Whatever pink the snow and exertion had brought to my features I was certain they were now quite red.

"Well, come on then," I said to Dinah, entwining my hand with hers. It shook slightly. The sickness of guilt for allowing her into this plan sunk upon my stomach. She nodded.

"Mina! Let us look at the dresses in that shop!" she cried loudly, pulling me by the hand across the square, just skirting the cathedral so that we came within easy listening distance of the man.

"Wait a moment! Let's listen," I said, stopping in close proximity to the man who seemed to be in the middle of a sermon of which only a few were standing around to observe.

"Only for a moment, Mina. It's too cold when I stop walking!" Dinah whined in a manner that was a bit too convincing. Our farce now completed we set ourselves to listen to the man's speech.

"Today as I walked through the streets of Muenster I saw a child begging for bread. A lowly thing, dirty and shivering in the cold. Her clothes were little more than the scraps of discarded potato sacks sewn together and no warmth did they provide. She wore no shoes and I could see her toes had turned blue. As I watched, men and women walked past her pretending not to hear her cries for mercy. I asked her where were her parents and she told me. And what she told me rent my heart! For her father was in debtors prison and her mother had taken ill from the poisoned air of the factory and was now at the verge of death. I asked her if she had anyone that might take care of her and she told me there was no one who would take her in. That she was shunned for her poor appearance. And she asked if I might spare her a coin or bread that she might give it to her mother that they might eat and die. I knew this to be no ordinary child but an angel of the Lord sent to test the hearts of the people of Muenster. And they were found wanting!" He emphasized this last sentence.

"These pretenders to piety could not even stop, on the very feast day of one of their so-called Saints to help this poor child. Could not even stop a moment during the one season of the year where they are called to sacrifice! For they had allowed their hearts to be hardened in the cold brick buildings of the factories. Allowed their souls to be choked by the poison fumes belching from the breweries. How cold, how insensate! must a man become to ignore the mewling cries of a starving child? What would it cost him to offer her some comfort? A few pfennigs and a moment of his time? I asked the child to take me to her mother and she did. It was just as the girl said, her mother was at the end of her battle with cotton lung. There was nothing to be done for her. I swore to her I would make certain her child was provided for from this very moment. Reaching into my sack I gave the child my lunch and all the coin I had that she might buy food. Then I gave her the stockings from my feet, the scarf from my neck, the hat from my head, and the very coat from my back and told her that I would send another to look after her welfare and then I thanked them both from my heart for allowing me the chance to serve them as Elijah served the widow." He stalled a moment to let the scene he had painted sink in. Whether it were true or not the fact he was without those specific garments lent it terrible credibility.

Taking a deep breath he surveyed the dwindling crowd in that solemn manner of preachers coming to their concluding point, "I do not tell you this tale that you should hear and heap praise onto me for my good works but that you might see the great black sin that covers this city! That you might recognize that which destroys and separates you! It is the love of money that bears this vile fruit! The love of money that kills and exploits those very people Christ called us to serve - the poor! That makes enemy from neighbor. We desired money so we built factories. We desired more so we purchased mechanized looms and if hundreds lost their jobs in the process what was that to the millowners? They had their money! And we hardened our hearts when our neighbors were imprisoned for their debts, when we watched them starve and succumb! We stifled our consciences crying out to charity until they were smothered by our greed and cried no more! And we divorced ourselves from our neighbor, pretended it was his problem alone and not our own. Blamed his misfortune on him. Until we had turned our hearts to stone, sacrificed our souls! Until we had become nothing more than machines for them to use and discard!"

"Dear sir, what do you propose we do then?" Dinah spoke up.

The man regarded her question with a look of delighted surprise, "Repent. Cleanse your soul from the love of the world."

"And how are we to do that, sir?"

"Be baptized and sin no more."

"But I am already baptized - is that not enough?

"You are English are you not?"

Dinah blushed a lovely rose color just kissing the ridge of her cheeks.

"Your German is very good, but there is still a touch of the English lilt to your vowels."

"I do apologize."

"There is nothing to be sorry for. It is quite lovely."

Dinah's cheeks were now entirely crimson. She attempted to cool them with her hands to no avail. I had never known her to be prone to flattery and I suspected she was not in this moment for her cheeks may have been red but her stance remained resolute, untempered by the stirrings of emotion.

"What brings you to our fair city?"

"It is my Grandmother, she is very ill." I answered for Dinah who would yet be unaware of our plans. "I am soon to be married and I wished for my fiance to meet her."

"I am sorry to hear of your Grandmother's illness, is it serious?"

"She would tell you different, but the Doctor tells me it is very bad." I was painfully aware of my lacking in the linguistic skills required to sound like anything more than a child.

"It is cancer." Dinah came to my rescue.

"That is awful, it is good you can be their for her. Were you very close?" He directed the question to me.

"A little, we wrote. I am very sad."

"Sadness is normal in these times for death is not. We were not created for death and when it occurs our souls are rent by the reminder of our rebellion and the pain of separation that it created that means that we will always be strangers either to our God or to the world. At least until He comes again in glory to bridge the divide and bring His domain to our own. Then there will be no more true death and we will once more be reunited with those who we have lost, provided that they put their faith in Him. Is your Grandmother a believer?"

"She is a Catholic, but more than that I do not know."

"Do you believe in Christ?"

His eyes were fixed entirely on me. My gaze darted to Dinah who shook her head almost imperceptibly.

"I think I do," I lied, for certainly I did but I trusted Dinah's judgement in the matter.

"You think you do?"

"There is so much evil and pain in the world it is hard to believe."

"It can be. It can be easy to place the blame on God for such things when the true culprit is our own sinful nature."

"And what about you... forgive me, might I trouble you for your name?"

"It is Dinah."

"A Biblical name."

"An inauspicious one."

"Yet still the name of a woman so beautiful she could convert a nation."

"You flatter me."

"Flattery is false praise, I do not speak falsely if it may be avoided. Do you believe in Christ, Dinah?"

"I do, your words ring true to my heart. For many falsely place blame on God for the results of man's own wickedness."

"Have you heard of the Millennial Kingdom?"

"Only in passing."

"What is the... Millennial Kingdom?" I tried, my tongue struggling to form the Germanic words I had just heard.

"It is where you and your Grandmother can be together forever with Christ."

"I don't quite understand...?"

"If you would like to discuss it further we have a weekly meeting where we read and discuss the Bible. It would be an honor if you would join us Miss..."

"Kepler," I said.

He smiled at this. "Kepler, that is a name we Germans are quite familiar with. Where are you staying Miss Kepler, if I might be so bold to ask?"

"With my Uncle in Coerde."

"Coerde is a very fine place." He redirected his attention to Dinah, "What is your relation, might I ask?"

"She is my future sister," Dinah answered.

"So it is your brother that she is marrying?"

"Yes. She is," a male voice from behind me answered with a hint of protective suspicion in its tone.

"Quentin!" I cried in mock surprise. He was flanked by Roger. "Uncle Johan!" Roger scowled at this pronouncement.

"I was starting to wonder where you and Dinah had gotten off to. And who is this gentleman?" Quentin asked.

"Forgive me for keeping the ladies, I am Heinrich Menning."

"He is a street preacher, he was just telling us about the coming of Christ," Dinah said, innocently.

"Fat lot of nonsense that is!" Roger sneered. "Come on, it's already dark and we have a long walk ahead."

"Yes, Uncle." Roger hooked his arm in mine and began to drag me away. "Goodbye Mr. Menning."

"Perhaps we will meet again, Mr. Menning. Until then." Quentin tipped his hat and turned from the man leaving Dinah unobserved.

"Thank you, Mr. Menning." Dinah curtsied.

"If you and your future sister get the chance you are always welcome," Mr. Menning's voice was soft but not so much that I could not make out the words.

I looked over my shoulder in time to see him slip a pamphlet into Dinah's gloved hand. She nodded.

"Come Dinah," Quentin ordered without so much as glancing back.

"Yes, brother." She favored Mr. Menning with a brief smile and tucked the paper into her sleeve before rushing to catch up with the three of us.


	11. Chapter 11

We did not speak of anything of consequence until we had entered the safe house on the chance we were being followed.

"Dinah, you were magnificent!" I said as Roger shut the door after taking one final look outside.

"He was very good. Did you notice how he attempted to play to my vanity while giving you the majority of his attention? To play two games at once so well!"

"I daresay, it sounds as though you might admire him," Quentin teased.

"On the contrary, I quite detest him. Using someone's grief to manipulate them into joining your faith is a vile betrayal. And attempting to use Mina and I against each other all the worse. He flatters me and then showers her with attention while witholding flattery from her which should breed envy between us while at the same moment making us both seek his approval. And he is just handsome enough that it might be an effective technique, but not so much so that it might be expected. I have seen scores of preachers and missionaries attempt the very same but with not half his skill."

"But he was no match for yours," I laughed. "It was a brilliant stroke to have me play the doubter."

"I was afraid you would not notice my signal."

"I almost didn't."

"Do you really think he might be our man then?" Quentin interjected.

"He was a Millenerian. That was certainly consistent with the Munsterite teachings."

"And the clothing was similar to the man we saw in Brighton. You were able to get one of the pamphlets?"

"Yes." She produced it from her sleeve and placed it on the table.

"The Trumpet of Tekoa," Quentin read the large print on the top of the document.

"Any idea what the meaning of that could be?" I asked.

Roger shook his head.

"It's a reference to the Book of Jeremiah." Quentin said pulling a small Bible from his coat. He began flipping through the pages, finally slowing until he found what he had been seeking, "Here." he pointed to a passage of almost indecipherably tiny text. "Flee for safety, people of Benjamin! Flee from Jerusalem! Sound the trumpet in Tekoa! Raise the signal over Beth Hakkerem! For disaster looms out of the north, even terrible destruction."

"That does not portend well," Roger said.

Quentin replied, "No, it certainly does not."

"What is the significance of Tekoa?" I asked.

"Tekoa was a town to the south of Jerusalem where the Prophet Amos was from, in those times it was used as an military outpost from which trumpets might be sounded to raise the alarm of invasion," Dinah supplied. "The pamphlet title would be meant to serve as a warning of impeding disaster to those who would know the reference."

"Jeremiah and Amos... weren't those both minor prophets who warned of the destruction of Jerusalem?" I asked.

"Well, I'm glad to see those Sunday services aren't entirely lost on you." Quentin smiled in a warm, quietly teasing manner all his own. "Yes. In fact the remainder of the chapter of Jeremiah goes on to describe the Lord's judgement of destruction against Jerusalem. The pamphlet further references Jeremiah here." Quentin read from the first line of text, running his finger below the words, automatically translating them from German as he spoke, 'Hear the word of the Lord, all you people of Judah who come through these gates to worship the Lord. This is what the Lord Almighty, the God of Israel, says: Reform your ways and your actions, and I will let you live in this place. Stand at the crossroads and look; ask for the ancient paths, ask where the good way is, and walk in it, obey me, and I will be your God and you will be my people. Walk in obedience to all I command you, that it may go well with you and you will find rest for your souls.'" He balked, picked up the document and reread the text silently; picking up his Bible he compared the two a moment.

"Quentin, the back!" I cried.

He turned it over that we might all see: printed on the back of the pamphlet on the bottom third in the place of a publisher's seal was the image of the 'A' in the circle with the picture of a sheep's head central and the small letters 'K' and 'M' flanking it to either side.

We stared at the image in silence until Roger finally spoke,

"Were there any doubt, I think it is quite vanquished."

Quentin nodded in agreement. "I am very troubled by the verse at the top."

"Why is that, brother?"

"Because it is not just one verse, it is three. Jeremiah 7:3, Jeremiah 7:23, and Jeremiah 6:16. They've been combined to form a single passage in such a way it would be difficult to notice it if you were not familiar with the text."

Dinah frowned.

"What is troubling about that?" I asked.

"They are willing to manipulate the Biblical texts in order to support their doctrines. That is a very dangerous thing. When properly rearranged and altered it is no difficult task to use verses to justify even the gravest of sins. The Word of the Lord is designed to strike at chords of the heart, to be a balm to the mind - when perverted and twisted it can be the most depraved seducer. You two girls will have to be on your guard."

"But won't you be with us?" Dinah asked, nervously.

"Not in the beginning. He'll trust us more if it appears you have coerced me to come with you after hearing and discussing his message. If I come with you to the first meeting he may take it as a challenge for I was not receptive to him initially - it would be odd for me to have so quickly changed my mind and become amenable to him."

"What about Roger?"

Roger sidestepped from the fireplace careful to avoid the chair, "Uncle Johan will not be joining the meetings at any point. It will serve us best if they were to believe I am a host hostile to their beliefs."

"They'll wish to rescue us from his attempts to recapture us from their fold," Quentin explained.

"They are a large group," Roger said. "We can estimate at least one hundred eighty-three based on the agents killed but I suspect there are a good deal more from which they are drawing their assassins and bombers. A group of such significant size would require its own land - possibly they have their own commune or have overrun a small village. It would have to be somewhere that is a good distance from normal society so they might not be noticed. They would be insular, unlikely to trade or communicate with the rest of the world beyond recruitment. If they see that you are in danger of being stolen from them they will speed up your admittance into their inner sanctum. And aside from that one of us must keep an eye on things here."

"According to the pamphlet they meet every Wednesday evening at 6pm at the Royal Theological and Philosophical Academy in the Fürstbischöfliche Schloss," I read. "That gives us four days to prepare."

"We'll need to spend the majority of it making this house look livable," Roger said. "Tomorrow Quentin and I should set about repairing the roof."

"Mina and I will clear the garden," Dinah volunteered us with not the least concern for my consent to the odious task or gardening.

"We will also need to get furnishings come Monday. And while you're at it, Dinah, see what you can do about Mina's German. We should be speaking it at all times in town to avoid being too conspicuous."

"Agreed," Dinah said. "We can start tonight, or tomorrow if you prefer?"

"Tomorrow, I think. I am far too tired to recall anything tonight."

"Then you should start tonight," Roger less suggested than ordered. "It will be like priming a pump. When you hear it again tomorrow it will be that much easier."

I deflated at his pronouncement, I had not exaggerated my exhaustion - if anything I had underplayed it. "If I must."

"I insist," Roger smiled in that way that only served to make me hate him more. "Quentin and I will leave so that you can get to it without distraction. Goodnight Miss Moore."

Quentin took his Bible and put it back in his pocket. "I suppose I should do as he says. Goodnight dearest," he said, kissing me on the cheek. With that, both men went to their rooms leaving me to my torment in peace.

* * *

The very next morning I was awakened by a loud knocking upon my door.

"Mina, are you awake?" Quentin's voice came through the wood.

I pulled the pillow over my head, responding in a muffled voice, "If I did not answer would you simply accept I was not and cease your knocking?"

"No, dearest." I could tell he was smiling even without being able to see his face.

"Then I am awake," I said, rolling over onto my back, still not willing to open my eyes. I could feel the dewy chill of the morning on my face like a thin fog. The air was fresh, cold, still with the scent of snow from the flurries the previous night. Or possibly this morning. Had it snowed overnight? I instantly hoped beyond hope it had snowed great piles of heavy white fluff.

"Did it snow last night?" I called.

"Only a light dusting. It should be gone by noon. You will not be able to get out of the gardening that easily."

"Rats!" I cursed to myself.

"We have much to do today so hurry up and get ready."

Opening my eyes to the pale grays tinted with the whitish blue of breaking dawn I sighed as I listened to his footsteps trail off into the kitchen. I hated to leave the warmth of my bed but now that I was up it seemed a cruel chill, stirred by my movements, was determined to seep under my quilt and drive me from the bed. In the other room I heard the crackling of the fire in the fireplace. Deciding it better to venture into the breach that promised future warmth than to attempt to bear the ever encroaching cold I wrapped my blanket about me and moved to the water bowl.

I tipped the pitcher over expecting a stream of water, but nothing came. Righting the object I looked inside. A bubble bobbed and danced just below the surface of an icy plate covering. I sighed once more. Taking a brush I jammed the handle into the ice breaking a jagged hole into the surface from which water could freely flow. I gritted my teeth as I dipped my fingers into the frigid water. I could ask for more water but vanity and exhaustion demanded that such herculean efforts not be spent. The shock of the liquid ice upon my face caused me to wince. Had I not been awake before I certainly was now! I splashed myself twice more before toweling off and beginning my preparations for the day in earnest.

It was only fifteen minutes before I was ready to rejoin civilization. Dinah sat alone at the table drinking a cup of strongly scented tea.

"Where are Quentin and Roger?" I asked, seating myself across from her and pouring a cup for myself. While we had arrived in town far too late to purchase groceries, Dinah had been able to persuade the restaurant owner to part with some of his stock for a few pfennig and her good regard. It was amazing the favors a pretty face might inspire.

"They are outside looking at the roof."

I sipped my tea, "I didn't notice there were any problems with the roof."

"There is a large hole in the roof over Roger's room."

"There is?"

"Yes, it's quite bad, I don't know how he manages to tolerate it. The entire corner is open to the elements. I offered to let him stay with Quentin and I would share with you, but he said it was fine, that cold air is good for the lungs and you needed your sleep."

"That is nonsense. You should have told me! I would have been more than glad to share my quarters with you."

"He told me not to tell you. But as the problem will be soon rectified I see no reason to maintain secrecy further." She took a sip of tea as if she had said nothing of consequence. "If you could spare the time I should like to spend an hour this morning concentrating on your German."

Despite that they had mentioned the roof needing repair yesterday I had not even thought to ask about it. It had been so very cold last night! It would have been no bother for me to share with Dinah! Why would he employ such a senseless measure? We were practically sisters!

Dinah placed her teacup on the saucer before her, regarding me quizzically, "Well, Mina?" I was still so befuddled by the confession of Roger's surreptitious generosity I had not even heard Dinah's proposal.

"I'm sorry, what did you say?"

"About working on your German for an hour after breakfast."

"Oh yes! Of course!"

"Good."

The door opened and the men entered with a frigid wind at their heels. Quentin, without even sparing a moment to remove his hat and scarf, immediately came to my side and planted an icy kiss on my cheek.

"Good morning, dearest."

"You're freezing!"

"It's not so bad, it is only the wind that is cold," he said, divesting himself of his top hat, scarf, and coat (how strange it was to see him in a top hat instead of his humble shovel hat!). "I imagine it should almost be warm by midafternoon if the wind stops."

"How is the roof?"

"It has a few places where it needs to be patched but it should not take us more than a day. Did you sleep well?" he asked, still standing for want of a chair, as he poured himself a cup of tea.

"Quite well, and yourself?"

"The same."

"And what about you, Roger?" I turned my attention to the man standing in front of the stove, watching us from a distance, "Did the snow last night give you any trouble?"

"Why would you think-"

Dinah coughed lightly. Roger, suddenly realizing his secret to have been exposed, sent her a dirty look. She did not turn to see it but I knew she was aware of it for a satisfied smile graced her lips.

"I tacked a blanket up so the snow could not get in."

"You might have told me. Dinah could have stayed in my room."

"You needed rest and besides," his tone became quite pointed as he continued, "I've been waking up with a bit of pain in my neck and I thought the cold might be just the thing for it." He rubbed the left side of his neck where it met the shoulder.

My eyes grew wide. I could not have shared a room with Dinah! Not without her discovering where Arthur had marked me! The highnecked dresses, coats, and scarves concealed it well, but in my nightclothes it was wholly exposed! And there would be no mistaking it for anything other than what it was. The Underhills would be understanding, of course, once the tale was laid bare before them. Quentin would forgive the scandal of it and would make no more mention of it. But I could not bear the damage it would do to my virtue.

For had I not known Arthur's reputation, his penchant for turpitude? Had not Elizabeth come crying to me that he had confessed to her of a child conceived out of wedlock that was claimed to be his - a claim he could not refute! And Elizabeth dearly had wished it not to be so, begged me to go with her to the Gilbert's house so that we might see with our own eyes that it was merely the grasping attempt of a scorned and fallen woman to disgrace a former lover. Had I not seen for myself the six year old child, the very image of the now Duke in miniature? Had I not been privy to so many rumors of Arthur's assignations? Heard jokes from other women regarding the ill wisdom of being alone with him? And yet I had allowed myself to be alone with him knowing all these things. He was the guilty party, of course, yet I could not help but hold myself at some fault for it. To have let him - a single man, a peer - be alone with me, a single woman, late at night... it had been an open invitation for scandal and it was only by good fortune madness was all I had been accused of.

Roger was protecting me.

I looked down into my teacup hoping the steam might somehow hide the blush of humility blooming over my face.

"Thank you for your consideration," I said.

"We should get you some linement while we are in town," Quentin suggested.

"There is no need, the cold air did wonders for it. It is barely even a twinge now. Some exercise should take care of the rest, I am certain. Now let's have no more talk of it. It was inconvenient to experience and I don't care to needlessly revisit something so banal." He took a sip of tea, savored it a moment and continued, "We should leave for town soon for there is much we must do today."

"It's Sunday," Quentin said. "Everything will be closed."

"Damnation! We'll just have to see what can be scrounged up."

"Mina and I were going to work on her German this morning," Dinah said.

"Might you be able to do that along the way to town? I do not wish us to be late for the early service," Quentin said.

"Oh! I completely forgot about services! I suppose we can."

Roger let out a breath that could almost have been a sigh and shook his head ever so slightly. Of course it would never cross the minds of either Underhill to simply skip church services given everything that had happened in the past few days.

"So what say you, Dee? Do you want to play the Papist today or Lutheran?"

"Lutheran, I think. It will be better practice for Mina."

"Why so?" I asked.

"The Lutheran Liturgy is in German, while the Catholic Liturgy is in Latin. Even if the Homily is in German it's still only a small part of the service," she answered brightly.

"Right you are, Dee."

"I wish you all the best in finding one in this town," Roger said caustically.

"We'll make do if we must, but I thought we did pass one yesterday."

* * *

And it seemed he had for he easily found the location of the little building, more a house than a church. Roger opted to part with us just before the entrance citing a general unwillingness to make a spectacle of himself and a need to see if he could secure, if not roofing tiles, then, at the very least, some wood to cover the hole in his roof. To call the experience uncomfortable would not do justice to it for we were quite apparent in the small group and initially the people appeared unable to determine whether they should welcome us or be suspicious of us but eventually settled on the former. Sunday School preceded services; which, of course, Quentin made such a favorable impression - the English preacher come to visit, who was so well learned and yet of such a humble temperament one would not think it, and such a fine speaker of German! - that by the time we had managed to extricate ourselves from the gathering we had a dozen invitations to dinners throughout the area and Quentin had graciously accepted them all. I suspected this was both out of friendliness and a desire to punish Roger for skipping church. Roger would, of course, be furious. I could not conceal my delight at that prospect.

We met with Roger in the main square for lunch. And, indeed, he was furious when he found out what Quentin had done.

"But it will be excellent practice for Mina," Quentin stated simply, which put an end to the argument once and for all. Dinah and I caught each other's glances and tried in vain to hide our smiles at Quentin's conquest with our food while Roger glared with impotent ire at the victor.

After a few minutes of silence Dinah finally broke in, "Johan, were you able to find something for the roof?"

"No. We'll have to come back tomorrow. We should buy some lime as well; the house has need of a fresh coat of whitewash. And perhaps you and Mina might stop by the charity shops and find us some more furniture that the house might look as though it were actually lived in if Mr. Menning or any of his friends stops by to check on our story. A single man might be persuaded to clean for company, his ego would dictate the house appear well maintained, but he would not invest in new furnishings."

* * *

The next day we executed the plan. Furniture was purchased and roofing tiles obtained as well as a secondhand cart and to accompany, a small, elderly, yellow pony named Windpfiefe who may once have lived up to that name but now seemed quite content to plod along and nose at us for his shaggy head to be rubbed. Of course, for Dinah and I it was love at first sight with our little friend and he found plentiful caresses from us.

"He's a working animal, not a cocker spaniel!" Roger cried in frustration as the pony veered off to seek my attention once more which I gladly gave, rustling his white forelock between my fingers.

"He just wants a little love. It's not like we are in any hurry." I gave the pony a kiss on the nose.

Roger turned up his nose in indignation, "What a disgusting display. He'll never take his work seriously if we are not firm with him from the start."

"What work?" Dinah said, running her fingers through the pony's thick fur. "He's as much a prop as the sofa, but far sweeter."

"And more expensive."

"A worthwhile expense if I do say so," Quentin said, patting its head. "It will save us from having to hire a cart whenever we go to town."

"Provided we reserve an extra hour for the journey," Roger muttered as the pony nudged his arm. He attempted to ignore the obstinate creature but it persisted. "Oh all right!" he cried and rewarded the pony with a pat on the nose and a rock of sugar.

I could not help but chuckle at this display, "You're worse than the rest of us!"

"What do you mean? I'm his master. I've owned him his entire life; I'm supposed to spoil him in his old age. You're just my house guests. It is only sensible I should be the favorite."

"I always forget you're a horseman," Quentin said.

"I don't know why you do, it is a gentleman's pastime afterall. My champions are some of the finest in the world. Surely you remember 'Prince Caradoc's Cry'?"

"I can't say that I do."

"Prince Caradoc's Cry is your horse?" I exclaimed, all amazed, forgetting my language for a moment.

"Yes, one of my favorites."

"He's the sire of one of our mares, Greenmoor Rose! We paid a fortune for the match!"

"Ah yes, I recall that match: Lightning Amongst Lilies was the dam, correct?"

"Yes!"

"Not a particularly impressive specimen, but pleasant enough."

"Her bloodline was impeccable, she had an excellent build if you recall."

"But her musculature was lacking. A thin horse lacks endurance in my experience. White hooves as well."

"That is true, but with the combination we hoped to resurrect the best of the line."

"How did the experiment fare?"

"Rosie won a number of championships, but she is since retired. Her foals have thus far fetched us a good sum on the market with a dressage champion this year for Fury of the Rose. My brother swears her newest colt, Mountain Rose, will be a champion, though father is less confident."

"I didn't know Mr. Chester Moore III entertained an interest in horses."

"He doesn't. It is my brother, Avery, who is keen."

"Is Avery old enough to be the word on horses?"

"He's only seven but he seems to have good instincts."

Quentin stretched his arms over his head and leaned back, allowing the sun to shine down on his face and chest, "It's rather warm today. Dinah, you and Mina ought to whitewash the house while we work on the roof. Who knows if tomorrow will be half so pleasant?"

"Agreed," Dinah said. "If we wait it may rain tomorrow and we won't have the chance come Wednesday - it would be too fresh."

"I truly miss my barometers. It is difficult to guess the coming weather just by the feel of it," Quentin lamented.

My mind turned to Quentin's little home built weather station that hung just outside his window of the cottage at Sutton-at-Hone; all shiny gauges and dials and little whirring spoons to measure wind speed and direction all watched by the eager eyes of their master who rarely looked more childlike than when he was about their business. He had made a point to show and describes for me in detail each device, its function and provenience from a recently acquired anemometer he eagerly told me was a replica of DaVinci's design to his very first thermometer, given to him as a present on his sixth birthday from his father who could not have known what he had wrought in that simple gift.

We chatted about what needed to be done about the cottage for the remainder of the walk.

* * *

The day stretched long before us as we moved furniture, scoured pots, swept floors, ridded the place of pests and plugged their holes. Roger and Quentin spent much of the afternoon on the roof where we could hear them hammering away in steady rhythm.

"It's starting to get late," Dinah said, running her free hand across her glistening brow while leaning slightly on her broom. "We should start on the outside of the house before evening sets in."

"The whitewash should be ready by now." I gave the thin white mixture a stir to confirm the lye had properly integrated itself with the water. "It's a good thing Quentin knew about the alum powder and glue."

"He's had to whitewash the stable a fair number of times in his day - it should be no surprise he would find a way to make it stick better for longer - if only to avoid expending the effort quite so many times a year." Dinah winked with a smile.

I pulled up on the pot containing the mixture. Despite my best efforts it only lifted an inch from the floor.

"Let me help you with that." Dinah gripped the handle as well and between the two of us we managed to waddle the over laden pot outside.

I rolled my shoulder back a few times, massaging the joint with my other hand, "In retrospect we should have probably mixed it outside."

"We'll remember it for the next time."

I heard the hammering echo through the trees. Looking up to the roof I saw nothing. "They must be on the other side. I wonder how the work is coming along?"

"Hopefully well, I had no idea the roof was in such bad condition."

"Well, we'd best get to work ourselves. I don't want to give Roger an excuse to accuse us of sloth."

Dinah smiled knowingly, "I don't believe that will stop him from doing so, even if we covered the entire house in an hour. It's just his way."

"Perhaps he needs to consider mending his ways so they are less irksome."

Dinah simply smiled and dipped her brush into the pot.

* * *

After an hour Dinah took a moment to gaze at the sun which hung just a few fingers above the horizon. "We had best call the boys in for tea," she mused aloud.

"I'll get them," I said, relieving my aching arm of the heavy brush which had seemed lighter when I first picked it up. Stepping back to survey our work I was a bit dismayed to see we had only covered most of the front of the house so far and even that was not completely done. Hopefully Quentin and Roger would soon be finished with their task and able to assist us or we might be forced to paint by lantern light before all was said and done. "Quentin! Roger!" I called as I walked around the house. No answer met me but that of hammering.

Coming to the side where the din originated I saw the ladder leaning against the side of the steep roof. I climbed up the ladder a few rungs and was so shocked by what I saw I nearly lost my footing; for both men were stripped down to their waists, their shirts, waistcoats, and jackets lying in a pile beside the ladder as they worked. I could not help but stare at their forms. Quentin's alabaster form was not especially muscular, his build exactly as I would expect of a gentleman and not exactly unlike a statue of Hermes I had seen at the Crystal Palace in my youth but for a slight hint of pink upon the shoulders where the sun had colored them.

It was Roger who most drew my attention for his broad shoulders and defined back and arms were excoriated by scars, burning various shades of pinks from the exertion. The one that traversed his side to his stomach I recognized but the remainder were foreign to me. A particularly nasty scar on his well defined shoulder glowed a bright red. It could not be that old at all! Less than a year for certain! The body of the scar was straight, no more than two inches in length if that, but the edges had a ragged appearance to them, as though they had been torn and stitched badly (though still with more skill than the twisted scar on his hand).

Quentin turned from his work to pick up another wooden tile when he saw me, head and shoulders above the edge of the roof, staring at them. He smiled, "Oh, Mina. I didn't see you come up."

The sudden presence of talk caused Roger to pull up from his work and turn to face me. His chest was as badly marked as his back, if not more so! When he saw me staring, unblinking eyes large as saucers, he flashed a taunting smile, "Have you been watching for long?"

I could feel the heat growing upon my cheeks. I attempted to gather myself to answer, but my words came out in such a trippingly fast stream as to make the answer sound false despite its veracity, "No-no! I've only been up for a moment. I tried calling you."

"The hammers probably covered the sound," Quentin said. "Anyhow, what brings you up here?"

"Dinah wanted me to, that is to say, it is getting quite late and we were wondering if you would like to join us for tea?" I blurted out, trying with every fiber of my being to look at his face alone.

"Has it really gotten so late? Well, I suppose we'll just finish up here and be right down."

"I will. Thank you." I was relieved to turn my eyes back to the ladder.

"Wait a moment, Miss Moore," Roger called just as I was about to descend.

"Yes?" I said, still trying to avert my eyes.

"What do you think?"

I glanced up quickly and colored even brighter than before, my mind too flustered to grasp what his possible meaning could be. "Think?"

"About the roof?" Roger laughed, clearly reveling in my obvious discomfort.

I turned my eyes to the roof for only a moment before once more staring at the grass below, "I can't say for certain for I did not see the original, but I would guess from the work it has taken it looks very nice."

"Don't let the amount of time fool you. It took Roger the better part of an hour to get a single nail in straight."

"Not that you are one to talk," Roger said, hitting one last nail in. "Did we not almost lose a row of tiles when you failed to hammer them into the gable?"

"I was only an eighth of an inch off, if that!"

"But the gable was four inches wide." Roger taunted.

With a good-natured smile Quentin grabbed Roger's clothes in a bundle and threw them at him. "Get dressed. There's a lady present."

Roger caught the clothes. "Well, Miss Moore, I'm afraid the show is over," he said, pulling the long, white sleeves of his shirt over his scarred arms.

On the corner of the roof closest me Quentin was buttoning up his shirt. He picked through the little pile for his waistcoat, "Ignore him. Tell Dinah we will be down in a few minutes, dearest."

Well, at least they were getting along; I thought to myself as I stepped off the ladder, my face still burning red.

* * *

It was well into the night before we had finished whitewashing the outside of the house and it was a good thing we had not put off any for tomorrow for it rained the whole of the day but for the evening when the rain turned to thick, fluffy flakes of snow. Dinah put the time to use, drilling me in German every waking moment until even Roger had to admit I was coming along quite well.

"We've got a long day tomorrow, so we had best turn in," Quentin said, stretching his arms wide. "Goodnight Roger, Mina." He gave me a quick peck on the cheek from where I sat in front of the fire in one of our newly acquired armchairs, reading a little German book of fairytales he had surprised me with earlier.

"Goodnight dear."

"Goodnight Quentin, Dinah." Roger waved from the door of the little interior stable where he was attempting to fix the lock so that Windfiefe would not be able to make another daring midnight escape as he had the night before.

"Dearest, you had best be off to bed as well," Quentin gently chided me.

"As soon as I finish this chapter."

He smiled tenderly at me and, sliding a finger beneath my cheek, he turned up my chin and kissed me. "Don't forget to get some sleep," he said backing off.

"I will."

Quentin's eyes shone with a deep affection such that, for a moment, I felt my heart might burst from within me, "You will sleep or you will forget to sleep?"

"I will sleep," I assured him.

"Don't worry Quentin, I'll make certain she doesn't stay up all night," Roger said irritably.

"As you intend to?"

"Better to be up all night than to be awakened by a pony cribbing at your door. Besides, I don't have any pressing business tomorrow so I may sleep as late as I wish. And don't even think of waking me for morning prayers."

"Duly noted. Goodnight." And with that Quentin and Dinah retired to their room.

I had only had a few pages left in the chapter, but my unfamiliarity with the language caused my progress to be painfully slow. I was jarred from the rescue of Schneewittchen by a cup of tea being placed on the table beside me. Roger sat down in the chair at angle beside mine and took a sip of tea, gazing calmly at the fireplace. I closed my book and put it beside the little china cup. Taking the tea I blew the steam gently and took a sip, watching the snow fall through the window.

"So what is it you want to ask me?" Roger finally spoke after some minutes in silence.

"What do you mean?"

"I've known you for years now, I can tell when you are burning to ask a question."

I swallowed a sip of tea, "How did you get that scar on your right shoulder?"

Roger allowed the hint of a smile, he took a sip of tea before answering, "It's not important."

"Was it in Russia?" I probed.

"No, India."

"What happened?"

"I was spotted leaving the house of a wealthy government official and took a throwing knife to the shoulder from one of his bodyguards."

"That sounds dreadful."

"I was lucky." He placed his cup on the table, eyeing me seriously. It was a few minutes before he spoke again, "I know it goes without saying, but do not underestimate Menning. They would not allow him out if they were not certain of his loyalties and his ability to take care of himself."

This sentiment irritated me, it was as if he thought I were somehow in need of reminding the danger we faced and was in need of reminding. "As can I. There is no need for you to worry about me," I said, taking a sip from my tea.

"But I do."

I looked up from the cup to find his eyes matched to mine. There was something so very deep and serious within them I felt a hollow aching in the whole of my chest so overwhelming tears threatened to spring to my eyes. I searched for some response to parry this blow but found myself at a loss.

Roger pushed himself up from the chair in which he sat. "Anyway, I will see you in the morning. Until then: goodnight, Miss Moore."

He was across the room and through his door before I found my words again.

"Goodnight, Roger."


	12. Chapter 12

At five in the afternoon, following Tea, Dinah and I left for town. There was a nip in the air that was likely to only get worse as evening progressed, so while we did not need scarves and heavy coats, we carried them along with us. Dinah spent the majority of the walk making whatever final attempts could be made to improve my German before we arrived. It was no great challenge to find the building inwhich we were meeting for the University grounds sat as a giant palace of Academia amidst immaculately groomed gardens that would have caused many an English Lord to turn green with envy.

"Did they truly create a star-shaped moat to surround the school grounds?" Dinah said, peering at the map. So intent was she in her desire that we should not be late her eyes had been glued to that object from the moment we entered the city such that I doubted she had seen even a quarter of it beyond the street signs and the cobblestone avenues.

"If the entrance is any indication it looks to be so." I pointed at the two massive points of water that flowed out at angles from the main building.

"Extraordinary!" she said, lowering the map and observing the scene with her own eyes. "Let's get into the main building that we might get a better vantage of it!"

She easily outstripped me, entering the hall and mounting the staircase with a youthful eagerness I confess I was not equal to.

"Dinah, slow down!" I called as she climbed flight upon flight of stairs with me trudging as quickly as might be managed behind her. I harbored no love for stairs. Perhaps it was because her house had so few of them that she could summon some joy from them but I found their very existence a chore.

She peered down through the gap where the railing reversed direction at the landing, a grin lighting her face, "Hurry up, Mina!"

I caught up with her at the top floor where only a ladder led to what I guessed to be the attic.

She was staring out the window with her fingers curled upon the wooden ledge, knuckles leaning against the glass, her eyes shining at the sight. "Look Mina, it truly is a star! And what a glorious garden!"

Standing just a few feet behind her I looked out upon the grounds. Indeed it was surrounded by the most singular moat within which a garden that far surpassed the outer works was cultivated leading to a large reflecting pool that was now kissed by the golden rays of sunset.

Dinah turned from the window to face me, "We really must take a walk to the reflecting pool on our next visit."

"It is a pity we don't have time today," I said, checking the watch in my bag. I raised an eyebrow at the device. "But it shall have to wait, we are late as it is."

"I'm sorry, I didn't think it was quite so far," Dinah said pulling out the pamphlet. "Well, at least we are on the correct floor."

"It's not your fault, it was Roger that kept us. I think he wanted to make us late."

"I think you might be correct in that."

We approached the room designated by the paper. The door stood ajar allowing us to see into the room where a number of inexpensive looking wooden chairs had been arranged in a circle on the wooden floor which exhibited a rather uneven polish. A few of those chairs were occupied while a small number of people milled about the room chatting with each other. Menning was sitting, speaking with a woman of late middle-age. The woman seemed to have a rather unsettled air about her, but by the way fixated manner inwhich she addressed him, the way he held her hand in both of his own, I got the distinct impression it was not nerves that caused her odd demeanor.

"Those who are mourning, who are strangers, those who are rejected, the poor, and the mentally ill." Quentin had listed these for me as we sipped our tea. "Those are the ones who will be the most susceptible to Menning's message."

I felt the steely cords of tension begin to bind themselves around my chest.

Dinah knocked on the door causing the group to turn from their activities. "Pardon me, Mr. Menning, I hope we are not interrupting," she said timidly.

Seeing Dinah and I, Menning a wide smile broke across his handsome face. If not for his uneven complexion he might have had the appearance of an actor. He gave a brief word to the woman he was speaking with and walked up to the doorway to greet us. "Miss Kepler," he offered his hand, which I took. He gave it a brief squeeze before offering his hand to Dinah, "and Miss... pardon me, but I only got your Christian name at our last meeting."

"My family name is Underhill, but you may call me Dinah if you wish." She placed her hand in his, allowing a faint blush to cross her cheeks.

"Dinah, then. It suits you far better," he said, finally releasing her hand. "We were actually just about to begin, please have a seat." He gestured to the circle of chairs.

Dinah took a seat next to where Menning had been while I found myself between her and a rotund, mustachioed man of at least fifty years who appeared to have been constructed entirely from circles, a look only accentuated by his bowler hat, pocket watch, and monocle. I wondered if his mustache, neatly groomed into two slender triangles above overly full lips, was somehow an attempt to mitigate what nature had wrought. I was rather captivated by his golden watch chain through which was woven two ribbons: one of black and one of red giving quite an intriguing appearance to the piece.

Seated next to the man of circles and speaking to him in a rather nervous, fast tone was a younger man who was, by every appearance, a shop worker of some type. From the way he looked about the room I could guess this was his first meeting as well. He caught my gaze and smiled nervously before returning to his conversation with the fat man.

There were a number of others who possessed similar uncomfortable miens. A young lady simpered at me from across the room looking slightly relieved. I could easily guess why for aside from Dinah and I there was only one other woman besides herself. She was well dressed, a plump fox fur muff consumed her hands though it was not nearly cold enough in the room to require it. I was surprised to note the majority of people were not the dregs I had expected, but rather a sampling of the higher portion of the middle class. Of the dozen people gathered, aside from the odd woman Menning had been speaking with when we came in there was only one other who was dressed for labor; and he was a man who lounged back in his chair, near dozing with a misshapen landhaus hat pushed forward so it almost covered his eyes. From his pocket three thick, battered ribbons hung: black, red, and yellow in color, attached by a long pin so that they sat side by side.

Menning stood up with a clap of his hands, "Well let us get started, shall we? Mr. Biddel, I see you've brought a guest with you today."

The round man sputtered a bit as he rose, "Ah yes, this is Mr. Maier, he is the clerk at my business."

"We're glad to have you Mr. Maier. We're also glad to welcome back Mrs. Penick." he gestured toward the odd woman who nodded, an unsettling smile upon her face. "This is Miss Underhill and Miss Kepler, they are visiting us from England but don't worry, their German is very good."

That is not quite how I would describe it, I thought to myself with a twitch of a wry smile playing about the side of my lips.

"Next to Miss Kepler is, of course, our patron, Mr. Biddel whom some of you may recognize from Biddel and Botts shop."

The round man waved a hand as though in an attempt at modest recognition.

"Next to him is Mr. Maier, of course. Mr. Fuchs, Mr. Moll, Mr. Kaiser... Mr. Kaiser might I ask how your ward is faring?"

Mr. Kaiser, a lean, blonde haired man with broad shoulders made all the broader by a thick wool coat answered with eyes downcast, "I'm sorry to report her mother is approaching her final hours. The mother has accepted the saving blood of Christ and she and the child are consoled that they shall be reunited in the Kingdom of Heaven. But Gretchen fares well, she grows stronger by the day. The doctor says there is a bit of the cotton rasp in her lungs as well and recommends she be moved to the country."

"No need to worry, I'll take her back to the village with me when next I go. She'll be well tended to," Mr. Menning said.

"I'm glad of that, though my wife will be sorry to part with her."

"I'm certain the separation will not be for long."

Mr. Kaiser beemed at this pronouncement but said no more. Some of the others nodded approvingly but of what I could only guess.

"This is Mr. Lanz, he works at Kirschmanns Tailor shop. I met him yesterday in the square."

Mr. Lanz, a tall, thin, bespectacled man with rust brown hair, tipped his head toward us.

"Mr. Perchowski," the heavyset man of middle age who sat between Mr. Lanz and the woman with the foxfur muff garrumphed. He was some form of dark haired Prussian of dubious slavic origin. He struck me most in appearance as he reminded me of Grimsby, if Grimsby had melted somewhat, right down to the thin, black line of a mustache and the middle part in his hair.

"And this lady is Miss Betzen." The young lady waved a few fingers of her gloved hand. At the pronouncement of her name Mr. Lanz started and craned his neck that he might see around Mr. Perchowski for a better look at the young lady. Mr. Maier behaved similarly. It was my guess the name Betzen carried some weight in the area though, were the other group members to be used as an indicator one would think the name held no meaning beyond that it was hers. An empty chair separated her from the final person, and he did not seem the least bit perturbed by the distance. Likely he had as much desire to sit next to a Lady as she to sit by him.

"And, of course, Mr. Ackermann." The laborer nodded without shifting from his position.

Menning turned around and stood silent for a moment, his hands clasped behind his back as he looked out the windows behind him. I turned to look as did Dinah for we were seated with our backs to the windows. It was not a view of the garden he was seeing, the room was situated on the wrong side of the building for that, but rather the heart of the city. The darkened spires of the churches and chimneys billowing dark smoke stood stark in the foreground of the watercolor haze of reds and oranges behind. I could see St. Lambert Church, it's spire studded with the remains of scaffolding, towering over the rest of the town.

"What do I see when I look from these windows? I see division. I see a Germany divided. I see the old foreign church clinging to power, not only clinging but attempting to assert it by building control in the Government just as it builds its tower higher that it might overshadow all others. It does not seek to join with the majority but to subvert and subdue it. It does not seek to benefit the people but to keep its money and land holdings. I see a government where the wealthiest control 337 of the 397 delegates in the Reichstag. A body created for the service to the people! Yet the people only have a say in the election of 60 of them. And even of that the wealthy land owners are given greater weight in their votes than the urban worker. But what does it even matter when any proposal goes to the Bundesrat first? I see the wealthy businessman able to sleep in his bed while his employees toil endlessly through the night for mere pfennigs. He does not know them, he does not care to. Were it his decision he would prefer they be wholly divorced from himself for they are mere objects that he might exploit. And in every way he strips power from them. And I see man divided from God."

Mr. Menning turned from the window to face the group at this last statement. Pausing a moment for what I took to be dramatic affect, he continued on.

"But I do not blame a man for his division from God, for the only way to truly denigrate a man so that he might accept such mean estate is to divide him from God. There is but one true way through which a man may be divided from God is not to attempt to divide God from Man (for God would never consent to such a proposition, He holds man far too dearly) but to make man willingly forsake His God. And the only way to do such a perverse thing is by making man believe he is too filthy, too worthless!, to be in communion with His Creator. This can only be accomplished through a lifetime of denigration and demoralization from those who, though some may pretend at good intentions, in reality wish to make us twice as fit for Hell as they are. And we are a sorely denigrated, demoralized people.

It begins in our youth when we are told that even before birth we were guilty of sin, so guilty, in fact, that were we not baptized at birth we would go straight to Hell! All for the sin of being born of Man! We are told that from the moment of our conception we live in separation from our Lord. But that is not so! For God did not make man in separation from Himself. He fearfully and intentionally knit every man together in the womb, numbered every hair on his head - that does not sound like the actions of a God in schism who was content to merely wind the clock on our lives at our conception and watch as it ran out but rather a God intimately involved in every aspect of our creation.

But such things must not be spoken because were we to accept them we might rebel against our next lesson of youth: that it is only by our actions that we might achieve salvation and thus we are doomed to a life of constant schism with God for no man is able to be wholly blameless in their actions. It is utterly demoralizing to have to constantly track the number of times you have failed God in a day, in a week, in a month and then to have to admit that these are only the times you are aware of, for certainly there are many many more sins that you didn't even know you committed. How might a man even have the courage to go before his God after a time? How might a man ever feel assurance of his salvation? And how petty a God do we serve if simply missing church on a Sunday might send us to Hell."

At this Mr. Lanz looked as if he wished to voice an objection, but then, glancing around at the, if not rapt, then at least pleasantly attentive faces of those nearest him he stifled himself.

Menning continued as though he had not noticed Mr. Lanz in the slightest, "My friends, I tell you this was never God's intention. It is a perversion! It destroys any chance of true relationship we might have with our God because it asks us to do the impossible to prove our worthiness. But I tell you it is not a matter of whether you sin or not that you might gain salvation. For we know that while we were yet sinners Christ died for us. Shed His holy blood on the cross for us! Not after we had lived blameless lives, but while we were yet sinners. The Apostle Paul tells us salvation is not from our works but from our faith and that it is freely offered to all men regardless of station that none may boast. To Christ each one of us is valuable, he is the shepherd who would sacrifice himself for any one of His sheep. And I will say that again for it is so very important - for any one of His sheep. If it had been any one of our souls, even only for one, He would have sacrificed His life to save it. Were I the only man who had committed sin in this world He would have died for me. It was through His blameless life that He was able to spare my life. And not only mine but yours as well. He was the perfect sheep sacrificed to make atonement through His blood for all the sins of man. For it is only by the blood of the Lamb that the world might be washed clean of its wickedness.

And our world is one of wickedness. When given the choice between God and mammon the modern man has unrepentedly chosen mammon. We build up industry on the broken backs of the workers. We poison the water, choke the air with smoke, raze the forests and ruin the land. Fine stewards of creation are we! We tell some people their lives are more valuable than others and those whose lives we deem of little value we send into the hellish pits of the mines or the fiery furnaces of the factories. Little care is taken to ensure safety. The managers take to heart the saying 'Man was made to toil' and toil he will do until his dying day. But that is not what man was made for! God made man for Himself. He did not make one man to be better than another, rather he made all of equal import as parts of the same body. I do not say this to mean we should not work (for idleness is a tool of the Adversary) but that our work should not be such that it consumes all aspects of our lives. God made us to work that we might live, not to work that others might live in great comfort on large estates while we subsist on potatoes and choke on the smoke of the factories. It is in labor that man's greatest cruelty toward man is revealed, the depths of his straying from God. It is not that labor or management is evil, don't think I suggest that, it is able to be run in a fair manner. Mr. Maier, how would you say you are compensated for your labor?"

"Most generously, sir."

"And your hours - are they fair? Do they give you time to spend with your family?"

"More than fair, I enjoy a normal breakfast and supper with my children daily and Weekends off."

"And is this how all workers are treated at your shop?"

"As far as I know."

Mr. Biddel nodded.

"And how has this affected your business, Mr. Biddel?"

"I should say our profits are higher than ever. Customers respond well to a staff that is glad to serve."

"But let us suppose they weren't. Would you cut Mr. Maier's wages?"

"Not until after I had cut my own down further. He is my employee and I am responsible for him and his family. It is my business and should it fair poorly I should be the one to feel the effects of it first, not him."

"Which is as it should be. No man should be able to feast on goose and attend dances while those he is responsible for starve. That may be the way of man, but that is not the way of God. The way of God is simplicity and charity. It is not in giant mills billowing smoke but in small refineries. It is not in textiles but in weavers. Work is not about making man into machine but about elevating man to his purpose."

"But then how might we provide for all the people?" Miss Betzen interrupted, her pale face rather perturbed.

"Miss Betzen, you mean how might we provide for all the wants of the people. We can easily make and farm all that is needed to provide for our populace and even have some to spare. But we would not have enough to meet the wants of the people. The want of a new dress for the ball. The want of a seven course meal. That we cannot provide. For it is not what we need. We turn our wants into idols and believe we must have them for our own happiness. But, I ask you, Miss Betzen, are you happy?"

The poor young woman was aghast at the shock of being affronted in such a manner but after a moment her eyes dropped to her muff, "No. I am not."

"Miss Betzen, I thank you for your honesty. It was an impertinent question, but I fear I must ask you one more. When was the last time God felt real to you. When was the last time church felt like more than a place and prayers more than speaking to the wind?"

"But I have had my prayers answered!" she exclaimed in defense.

"And did it surprise you when they were?"

She was silenced. Once more she stared at the hardwood floor. It was some moments before she spoke again, raising her eyes to Menning she said, "I cannot remember. I am not certain He ever felt real to me."

"Yet you are here tonight."

"I am."

"Because you want Him to feel real to you. Because you know you live a lie and you cannot bear it any longer." Menning's eyes flashed with a hunger as he spoke. There was a passion in his rising tone of such note I felt even my own heart stirred.

"No, I cannot." Tears began to flow from her eyes, pattering onto the hardwood floor.

"My child, at this moment God is knocking on the door to your heart. He has been knocking for quite a long time, hasn't he?"

She nodded her head, unable to speak.

"Why do you not let him in?"

"Because... I don't... know how!" she managed between sobs.

Menning approached the woman and knelt before her. He removed her muff and clasping her hands in his he spoke softly to her as though she were the only person in the room, "I will tell you, if you are ready."

"Please! I can bear it no longer."

"All you must do is ask Him to come into your heart."

"But how?"

"Just repeat after me: Lord Jesus, I confess to you that I have lived a life for my own benefit, apart from You."

"Lord Jesus, I confess to you that I have lived a life for my own benefit, apart from You."

"I have heard You calling but I have ignored Your call."

"I have heard You calling but I have..." At this moment her sobs burst forth in a torrent and she fell to floor on her knees at level with Menning, "I have ignored Your call."

"And I am wholly sorry."

"And I am wholly sorry."

"Lord Jesus, I ask you to wash me in your precious blood that I may be cleansed from my wickedness and made pure."

"Lord Jesus," she hiccuped. "I ask you to wash me in your precious blood that I may be cleansed from my wickedness and made pure."

Menning squeezed her hands, his eyes locked with hers, "My child, He has heard the cry of your heart."

This pronouncement only caused her to sob harder. "Thank you," she choked out.

"It is not me who deserves the thanks. Mr. Biddel, might you look after Miss Betzen; I believe your expert guidance will be more useful to her than mine." He waved Mr. Biddel over and placed one of Miss Betzen's hands in the round palm of the other man. "My child, if you would, Mr. Biddel will assist you."

She nodded and allowed Mr. Biddel to lead her out into the hall where her sobs were muffled by the door. Lanz and Maier stared in shock at what they had just witnessed but as the other members only seemed to look on the incident with mild pleasure, both men quickly comported themselves.

It was only then did I realize that the group members attending the meeting were perhaps not so randomly chosen. What a wonderful coincidence to have a member of the gentry at a meeting where another gentry member might be. And a laborer. And a farmer in Mr. Fuchs. A businessman in Mr. Moll. In fact it appeared the majority of classes and combinations were represented so that if a "conversion" were to take place the convert would instantly have a peer to help them along their newly chosen path. And, were I to consider the matter further, had not Mr. Lanz twice been stifled in his desire to react by the general conduct of the group. Were not he and the other visitors all, in fact, surrounded by members excepting Dinah and I (and us only because we had sat beside each other before anyone might separate)? A man of even the scantest trace of manners would never speak out were he to believe himself out of line in doing so and that he would gauge through the reactions of those around him. In truth, he would be likely to take on the majority opinion even if he were inclined against it. It was human nature to desire conformity! To not wish to stand out alone in the crowd. No small wonder visitors were outnumbered. Every piece of this was plotted and executed with the greatest care!

* * *

The meeting continued for another ten minutes with a rather stirring meditation on community unabated by the absence of Miss Betzen. Regretfully, I was so lost in contemplation of the organization and composition of the group before me I did not properly attend to the words he was saying and was only shaken from my thoughts by the return of Miss Betzen. She returned, accompanied by a jovial Mr. Biddel, just before the communal prayer. Her face, so wrought as she left, now shone brightly, in her eyes I could see a determination of purpose absent before. Such a dramatic alteration was this that Mr.'s Maier and Lanz stared at her in wonderment. Even Mr. Ackermann saw fit to straighten himself in his seat and greet her reappearance with a nod of acknowledgement.

Prayer requests were made; I, of course, making a special request for my Grandmother who, for all they might know from my acting, was on Death's threshold. Dinah patted my hand in an attempt at assurance.

She had her own request ready, "If you would, please pray that the good Lord might soften, our host, Mr. Kepler's heart toward our attending these meetings. He was very much against it. I had to tell him Mina and I were going on a shopping expedition or he would not have let us leave."

I nodded in confirmation.

"I am sorry to hear that. It grieves me that one would be made to feel the only way to pursue the gospel truth would be to lie. We will certainly pray that through your witness Mr. Kepler, who is Miss Kepler's Uncle, will come to recognize the good done here. But, be assured, even if God does not soften his heart it is only that His greater plan may be accomplished. Had the good Lord softened Pharaoh's heart in Egypt, Israel should never have been founded."

"Thank you, I had not thought to consider that," Dinah said.

The Prayer section of the meeting took almost as long as the meeting itself and by the time the final amen was declared the sun had well set and the first stars were beginning to appear in the velvety blue outside the window. Afterwards the majority of the group stayed behind, forming little knots of discussion. For her part, Miss Betzen stuck close to Mr. Biddel, and Mr.'s Maier and Lanz to the pair of them. I was, for a brief, though far too long, period of time, forced to repel a rather unpleasant bit of conversation by Mrs. Penick, who was more than glad to inform me of the ill health that had kept her away from the meeting in excruciating detail. By the time she began discussing the particular peculiarities of her cat I found I had an urgent need to avail myself of the facilities and excused myself to the toilet where I waited until I was certain the danger of being bored to death had passed. As had her shuffling footsteps outside the door to my hideaway accompanied by the heavy footfalls of who I guessed to be Mr. Ackermann.

When I returned, the numbers were dwindling considerably. I sat myself next to Dinah, who was engaged in animated conversation with Menning, and pretended to watch the other groups as I listened in on them.

"But if we seek to dispute the government, does that not violate the command that we are to submit to our Governors in Kings for they have been appointed by God?" I overheard Dinah say, her hands were moving as she spoke seeming to emphasize the import of what she was saying.

"While it is true that God has called us to submit to our rulers I would posit to you that there is an exception to that command which we can see exemplified numerous times in scripture: that is when the orders of the ruler would force us to violate the precepts of our own faith. You must recall Daniel was thrown into the lion's den for refusing to obey the orders of the King, and earlier his friends were thrown into the fiery furnace for the same crime. Esther defied court law multiple times that she might save her people. Elijah certainly defied Ahab and the treacherous Jezebel to their ruin. Even Christ acted in defiance of the Pharisees when he healed on the Sabbath. And certainly we must imagine it was the height of defiance when David defeated Saul, the very King of Israel. Now please don't mistake that I advocate overthrowing the government, for I have not said such a thing at all, but that there are times when we must certainly speak out against wickedness."

"But we cannot forget that though David did defeat Saul and take his kingdom, it was only after he had been anointed by Samuel as God's chosen King. One could argue that he was not taking the Kingdom but, rather, restoring the rightful ruler to the throne."

"And such an argument would certainly have merit. But that was only the most extreme example."

"True, but the remainder acted in their defiance with full acceptance of the consequences of their acts. Recall Shadrach, Meschach, and Abednego said in answer to King Nebuchadnezzar's query as to whether they believed that their God could deliver them they answered that he could but even if He did not, they should still worship Him and not the golden God was merciful in order to show His own glory in no way precludes that they had accepted the ordained penalty for their disobedience to authority. At no point did they disrespect the King as an authority-"

"No, they only claimed to answer to a higher authority who had precedence over the King," Menning finished her point, a gleeful expression upon his face. I noted a number of the other members look toward the pair with some interest, but only a few seconds of snatched conversation caused them to once more return to their neighbors. In truth, I was hardly able to keep up with their fast-flowing speech. No sooner had one spoken than the other was ready with an answer. There was no reference that required explanation to be understood, reflected upon, and responded to. They were almost equally matched, though I had the sense it was Dinah who held the upper hand, though not by a significant margin. Menning seemed aware of this fact as well, and not just to be aware but to be enjoying the challenge. It was clear from both that they were in their glory and I could not help but wonder when Dinah had last had the opportunity to have such discussion with anyone but her father and brother, if she had ever had such opportunities at all. I felt as though I were watching a long caged bird, finally allowed to fly free.

"But, what about - and I would hesitate to bring up this example except that I trust you are already familiar with it - The Maccabean Revolution?" Menning proposed with an arched brow.

"But that is Apocryphal."

"That does not make it any less relevant simply because the books were written too late."

"Was not the end result of the Maccabean Revolution a treaty with Rome that amounted to the full subjugation of the Israelites?" she replied archly. "Is that not a better argument for submission to God's choice in leader rather than man's ability to choose their own?"

At this I was now wholly lost. I knew nothing of the Maccabean Revolution to even begin to frame the conversation. At least with the others I had some familiarity with the names and tales. I turned my attention to conversations of the few group members now left. Mr. Lanz had left some time ago, as had Mr. Kaiser leaving only Mr. Biddle, Mr. Maier, and Miss Betzen on one hand and Mr. Fuchs and Mr. Moll on another. Mr. Fuchs was a thinner man with the shrewd face of a bank teller, he seemed quite embroiled in his conversation with Mr. Moll, a stocky farmer painted in shades of mousy brown, about something or some place he kept referring to as "center" which he did not seem to keen on. Seeing me watching he shifted slightly so that his back faced me and continued in a conspiratorial whisper that I might not overhear further.

With nothing to draw my attention I sought out my bag and began to shift around the contents. After a few minutes Mr. Biddel extracted his watch from his waistcoat, regarded the information upon it with some surprise and replaced it in its pocket before speaking,

"Everyone, I regret to inform you it is now eight o' clock and we must make our leave."

"Thank you Mr. Biddel," Menning said, turning from his conversation. "Miss Betzen, do you have someone to escort you home?" he asked while Mr. Fuchs and Mr. Moll shuffled out the door.

"No. But it is fine, I can get a cab."

"Nonsense. Mr. Biddel, do you mind taking Miss Betzen home?"

"I'm sorry Mr. Biddle, I don't mean to trouble you."

"It is no trouble at all, Miss Betzen. I was going in that direction anyhow and I certainly could not allow a woman to venture out at night alone." And taking up his jewel-topped walking stick, Mr. Biddle escorted Miss Betzen out with Mr. Maier following close behind.

Menning set about moving the chairs so that they sat against the wall. He paused a moment to look at us, a teasing smile playing about his features. "Now what am I going to do with the two of you? I take it you are not to be met by you relations?"

Dinah and I shook our heads.

"Well, I simply cannot allow two foreign women to wonder out into the city alone at night. If you'll wait a moment, I'll finish up here and accompany you."

"There's no need for that," I objected, wishing to have the time to speak with Dinah alone and be away from this man. While his manners were certainly disarming, I could not shake the feeling of grave danger when he moved. It were as though I expected he might pull a blade at any moment and attempt to dispatch the both of us. "We are quite familiar with the way."

"Ah, that is why you brought a map then," he said with an arched brow.

I had forgotten about the map completely.

"I do understand I am a strange man but you don't need to worry. Though if it troubles you too much to have my company I can get a cab for you."

"It is only my Uncle I worry about."

"He would not have to know," Dinah said. "Mr. Menning could leave us before we get to the door."

I shot her a look which she parried with a raise of her brows.

"Please Mina? Your Uncle would be cross if he had to pay for a cab."

I sighed deeply. It was not that I could not guess her game, only that I wished she were not playing it. It was far more reckless than she imagined. Suddenly, I knew with startling clarity how Roger must have felt when I had insisted on helping find Lord Bond. Still, like him, I was in no position to refuse her. She had developed a report with Menning and she intended to exploit it while she might with no regard for the potential danger. While unlikely, it was certainly possible he already suspected we were spies and would take full advantage of the lonely road to Coerde to make an end to us. I gripped my umbrella handle more tightly, unconsciously wraping my fingers around the comforting mechanism that, when the crook was separated from the shaft, would become the trigger of the gun disguised within.

"I suppose. Given that he leaves us once we are close to the cottage."


	13. Chapter 13

Menning breathed deep of the frigid air as he led us from the building. Snowflakes swirled about, brought to life from the rooftops where they had been content to lie by a pleasant zephyr that mercifully contributed nothing to the chill and all to the beauty of the night giving the illusion that it was snowing though the sky was clear. A bright half moon lit the remnants of snow still lingering along the edges of the walkways. The snow twisted in the lamplight, glittering as it fell softly around us.

He ran a hand through his hair causing his bangs to rearrange themselves more loosely about, though still brushing the very tops of his cheeks which were already reddening in the cold. "I love this city when it is dressed in snow. There is something about it in the Winter that gives it a quality unlike anything else." He adjusted the overly large coat that hung from his narrow frame. The hem brushing against his knees and the sleeves only revealing his fingers from the middle joint up (the exact point not covered by his fingerless gloves) almost gave him the aspect of a tramp were it not for the coat's high quality. It was a thick woolen piece dyed naval blue with great brass buttons – it would have been quite ostentatious in any company but it appeared all the more so when against his woven wool shirt and trousers. A thick, knitted red and yellow scarf was wrapped tightly around his neck.

"I see you managed to acquire a coat," I said archly.

"Oh yes, Mr. Biddle leant it to me. He said he would not tolerate to see me without and I would not let him buy me a new one. The scarf was a present from the Kaiser family. Their eldest knitted it for me."

"You mentioned you would be taking their ward back to the village with you when you left, are you not from Munster then?"

"No. I only visit for two months at a time to help with the mission here and then I usually go back to the village for a few weeks to a month. You caught me at a good time, I only arrived a week ago."

"Who leads the meetings when you are away?"

"Mr. Biddel leads the Wednesday meetings and the Sunday Service. A man name Mr. Stiegel whom you have not had the opportunity to meet yet leads the Monday meeting, and Mr. Kaiser leads the Friday meeting. You were fortunate to have the opportunity to meet him today, he was not sure whether Mrs. Groenig would live until Saturday and so wanted to have Friday free were funeral arrangements required."

"That is exceedingly generous of him to open his home to them."

"He is an uncommonly charitable man. If all people were as generous as he and his family there should be no want in the world."

"You mentioned other meetings and a service on Sunday?" Dinah asked innocently.

"Oh yes. We have three meetings a week. It helps us to keep the groups smaller so our visitors do not feel lost in the crowd. But we do unite every Sunday at Mr. Biddel's house for a service and a meal. We should be very glad to have you if you wish to attend. Mrs. Biddle always makes for too much food so there is no need to worry about putting anyone out."

"We will certainly consider it," I said. The topic now fully exhausted we lapsed into silence, strolling along the tree-lined promenade watching the snowflakes as they danced around the lamps.

Finally, after what seemed a rather long time, though it could only have been a few minutes Dinah ventured to speak, "I hope you don't mind my impertinence for asking, but if you are not from Munster then where do you hail from?"

"I don't mind at all; but that is a bit of a complicated question to answer – it depends what you mean."

"Well, where were you born?"

Dinah was either more curious or more clever than I had given her credit for. Either way the information would prove useful. Were he to say he was born in the village than we should know it to have existed for at least thirty years (for, while Mr. Menning's age was somewhat ambiguous, he must be at least in his thirties) and were he not we might learn how he had come to be a part of such a place without seeming suspiciously direct.

"I was born in Heidelberg just after the occupation."

My eyebrows involuntarily jerked upward. Interesting that he should feel compelled to mention such a thing were it not somehow essential to the tale. From what little I knew of the people of the Paletine region they tended to be of a very fair aspect, which was not at all how I would describe the man who walked beside us.

I attempted to appraise the Menning's features without gaining his attention but failed for he sighed and said, "I know. My mother's husband believed the very same and cast the both of us out before I had even finished my first cry. I suppose my father was Dinaric. But my mother and her husband were Nordic which accounts for why I don't especially match even with myself."

And surely he did not. His face had been so ruddy when we had first met I had not noticed the incongruity of his complexion with the rest of his features for it was extraordinarily fair while his hair was dark. On an Englishman or one for whom the combination was natural this might have been passable, even handsome; as it was with Dinah. But there was a darkish tint behind the skin, as though the blood itself were of a blacker tone, that gave the flesh and lips a decidedly unpleasant cast. His pale grey eyes were set deeply but did not have the length I was accustomed to seeing on a German. Still, he was not an unattractive fellow. His narrow face, slightly pronounced cheekbones, well-formed high chin, open brow, and aquiline nose were well set by his black brows and hair. He was taller than I by perhaps two inches and slender but not so much so as to appear sickly.

"How did you come to be in Munster then?" Dinah asked, careful to avoid what sounded a very personal subject.

"For a time I was sent to live on a farm outside of town with my maternal Grandfather who was more than glad to have me as he had always wished for a boy but instead was blessed with four daughters. I was fortunate for he treated me like a son. In truth, I believed I was his adopted son for he never told me otherwise. He ensured I received a proper education. At sixteen he sent me to Heidelberg for college. I was set that I would enter the law and was a year in when my Grandfather died suddenly. I had never had any reason to believe I was not a beloved part of the family but I quickly learned it was only because my Grandfather had forbidden his children from saying a cross word against me in my presence that I was given that impression. In truth, they resented me. My Aunts made certain I was fully aware of my place in the family as its great shame. The illegitimate mutt born from my mother and a shiftless soldier."

Dinah was scandalized by this tale. I too looked upon the man with great amaze that he would so openly reveal such things.

He glimpsed our faces and allowed a smile.

"I don't tell you these things to shock you but that you might know the power of Christ to use a man of even the meanest circumstances for His glory. To hide that would be just as much an admission that I was ashamed of what He has done. But I will stop if you find the story too troublesome."

"No, do continue," Dinah managed.

"My grandfather had left me an inheritance of a fifth of his estate that I might complete school and be able to establish myself, but my Aunts would not hear of it. They sued for my portion and, with the assistance of my own mother, they stripped me of my entire inheritance. Penniless, I sought work in town but rumors of my disgraceful heritage preceded me wherever I went, spread by my insidious relations. In the end, I was forced to abandon Heidelberg entirely. I traveled to Bonn and made my living as a laborer. If a living is what you would call it for there was scarcely enough to live on and the places we were to live in were foul and in disrepair. One winter, five years after I arrived, there was a plague where I lived in the slums outside the factory. I got sick, everyone did. Over thirty died, mostly children. It came to be known the factory had dumped some of the chemicals they were using into the water."

Dinah gasped, covering her mouth with both of her hands.

"Of course, there was nothing the city would do about it since it could not be proven that it was the chemicals which had made us sick and who cared whether a few poor children were killed? Most were foreign anyhow. Rather than chastise the factory and risk the ill-regard of the owner they simply claimed it had been an outbreak of dysentery. I took to my pen, I took to my crate. I wrote treatise after treatise exhorting the people not to let this pass, I stood on street corners pleading the case of the workers. I read about Unions and attempted to form one, but people were too frightened that they might lose what little they still had. I was shot twice for my efforts." He smiled wryly.

"It was then I met a man who took interest in my words and introduced me to the Prophetess. She heard my case and told me that while my cause was righteous and just it would never succeed for it was only for man that I worked and not for God. That this wickedness of man's was against God, that it was an offense to Him, and that He did seek it to be righted but that it must be done in His way in accord with his timing. I had never heard anyone in the church speak of God in such a manner. It always seemed God was so far away, unconcerned with the doings of man and his plight. But she told me this was not so, that He had called her to lead a people who would fight against the grave injustices of the world and make it a place fit for the return of Christ. She asked if I would be willing to become one of her Lieutenants and, feeling the hand of the Lord guiding me, I agreed. It has been ten years since that day. I have served in Munster at her command for seven of those years, building our church according to her pattern in the city God has chosen."

"You mean you say your leader is a woman?" The shock in my words was unmistakable. I would not have thought it possible for Dinah's eyes to have grown wider than when he had said he had been shot, but they were almost saucers now.

"Why does it surprise you our leader is a woman? Was Deborah not a woman and still Prophetess and Judge over all of Israel? You cannot tell me she was only the leader because there were no men qualified. What about her husband, Lappidoth? Was he qualified to be her leader but not the leader of the country? What about the general, Barak? I assert to you there were any number of men qualified for the position but it was a woman God called for she would be the one humble enough to hear His voice in a time when the fate of the entire kingdom hung in the balance. The qualifications God seeks are not to be confused with those man seeks. But that is enough about me for now, I would like to learn more about you."

"In comparison with your tale what is there to tell?" Dinah answered. "My brother and I reside with my father in a little town south of London. My father is the Reverend Emeritus of our local parish and my brother, Quentin, serves as its Pastor."

"That does account for your uncommon familiarity with scripture. Though, even then, I have been acquainted with many a woman of religious parentage who did not have half your knowledge. Only a woman with a true passion for God would have read the scripture that the Anglican church calls the Apocrypha."

Dinah demurred, her eyes cast down to the cobblestone, but still a faint smile and rosy blush could be discerned upon her face.

"Your brother was the brown-haired man who was with you the other evening, correct?"

"Yes," she answered, still not looking from the road which was now beginning to turn to dirt as we left the city behind.

"Is he older or younger than you?"

"He is neither, we are twins."

Menning smiled, "I might have guessed, I know a set of twin brothers. There does always seem to be a unique relationship between twins that is foreign to all others. Now you say he is Miss Kepler's fiancé?"

"That is correct," I answered.

"Well, he must be quite a remarkable man to have two such women associated with him."

"He is," I said. "Quite remarkable."

"Is he more amenable to our group than your Uncle?"

"It is difficult to say, at the moment they seem to be of one accord. But then, he has been dissatisfied as of late. It pains him to see the suffering of those in the lower classes knowing that the church regards it as something that he should not attempt to rectify. There is a way of thought in the church that suffering is a blessing and that those of lower stations should not be deprived of the path God has decided for them. Thus mitigation and charity should only be so much as to alleviate the worst of the pangs, but not so much as to change their station. He has tried to reconcile it but he cannot help but feel it is merely an excuse that the lower class may continue to be exploited. If I tell him of the conversation we have had he may yet consent to come to a meeting."

"I pray he does. A man should not have to stifle his conscience to serve the Lord. It destroys his heart and leaves him deaf to the urgings of the Spirit. A church that would ask such a thing must first ask themselves whom do they serve. Oh, look at the sky!"

His exclamation was so unexpected that Dinah and I were instantly compelled to look. Above us stars blanketed the sky in a way I had rarely seen before. Milky swirls threaded through the dark blue hues while large stars challenged the very moon for attention. The few gossamer clouds that dared to obstruct the view were cast in silver by the heavenly bodies. I could readily discern the Greek heroes I had read about in my youth and yet at the very same moment there seemed too many stars to sort them into such arbitrary categories. It felt as a sin to group and name them; as though that were to somehow diminish them.

"Remarkable," I breathed.

"It's lovely," Dinah said.

I glanced down a moment to see her pale face staring in awestruck wonder at the sky. It was only for a moment, but I thought I glimpsed the tips of her fingers rest on Menning's arm.

"Oh!, I can see the lights of Uncle's house!" I exclaimed, pointing at a pair of twinkling lights not far in the distance.

Menning squinted into the darkness, "It seems my time with you is almost at an end. I must admit I am sorry for it."

"It has been quite the evening," Dinah said, a small pout visible on her face which, when combined with her shorter hair, gave her the aspect of a disappointed child.

"Well, if God is willing, may it be the start of many to come. But I should not selfishly keep you ladies any longer."

"Come with us just a little further," Dinah urged. "There is still a little ways to go and the dark makes me nervous."

"If you insist," he said, offering his arm, which she took.

He offered the other to me, but I demurred, "Thank you, but the road is a bit too narrow to allow three to pass comfortably."

I watched as they walked slightly before me, talking of the little cottage we inhabited. Dinah's acting had been impeccable. Every moment of it was perfectly calculated. I should have expected no less of a Reverend's daughter; trained up from birth to portray a placid calm and perfect discipline no matter how great the challenge or terrible the discomfort. So unlike myself. But there was a glint in her eyes when she looked at Menning that gave me pause for concern. Perhaps a spark of true regard for a man who had met her on the field of battle and matched her. With his easy manner it was no great challenge to forget the crimes of Menning's group, the grave danger of our situation. And such attachment, even if mild, was worrisome.


	14. Chapter 14

Dinah and I quickly shut the large door of the little Zweiständerhaus (as Menning had named it). We both fell back against the door breathing heavily, as children might when they had just escaped from that unknown evil that lurked in the darkest shadows of evening.

Dinah turned to me with a smile, "Well, that was exhilarating."

"That would not be the first word I would use to describe it," I laughed, relieving some of my nervousness in those short notes.

Quentin was upon us in a heartbeat, fussing with our coats while at the same time asking so many questions regarding our wellbeing Dinah and I scarce had time to answer one before two more followed it.

As he attempted to assist me with my scarf (an action that only served to make the process of removal all the more complicated) I took both his hands in my gloved ones and kissed them, "Dear, thank you for worrying for us. But there is no need for you to trouble your mind further, we are both safe."

"Was the meeting productive?" Roger's voice came from down the hallway by where the fireplace burned brightly. He was seated in one of the armchairs swirling an amber liquid, which I suspected to be brandy, in a glass before taking a sip.

Disengaging myself from Quentin I walked over to where Roger sat, glad to feel the warmth of the fire on my chilled extremities.

"I believe so. Mr. Menning appears to be quite taken in by Dinah's charms. I believe he will be quite amenable to aiding our escape from our cruel Uncle, when the time comes."

Dinah joined us with Quentin close at heel. "It was a terrible thing to see, though," she said.

"Was it violent?" Quentin asked.

"Not in the least. No. But the passion, the words stirred even my heart. And I fear his are not the most dangerous we shall face."

"How do you mean?" he pressed.

"Menning's not the leader of the group, he's only a footsoldier," I answered for Dinah, taking the seat closest the fire. "He claims there is a woman who serves as their prophetess."

"A woman?" Roger put his glass on the table beside and leaned forward.

"Yes. If Menning is to be believed she is their leader, in the vein of Deborah, and has been for at least a decade. From the tale he told us of his own experience she has a penchant for seeking out radicals and turning them to her purposes."

"That would hold as radicals are more apt to accept violence as a means to an ends. What was your impression of this Menning fellow? Was he attempting to spread a political agenda through religious propaganda?"

"No. If there was any distinct political motivation in his speech it was well disguised. He seems devout in his beliefs," Dinah said.

Roger massaged his temples. "A true believer. And the others?"

"I could not speak for certain but I would guess so."

"It would be troublesome enough were it simply a political group who couched their messages in religious language - their minds still reside in the earthly realms - but it is a far worse situation when they have only Heaven on their minds," Roger growled more than spoke. "They don't fear consequences or death except those that might be meted down from whatever god they believe in if they fail to please."

"The meeting we attended was actually one of three they hold during the week. According to Menning they keep the meeting groups small in order to better focus on their visitors without overwhelming them."

"But you believe otherwise?"

"The visitors were well outnumbered by the members. I saw a number of visitors who appeared as though they wished to object to some of his more radical statements but they were silenced by the fear of appearing to dissent with the crowd of whom the majority were fairly respectable. It took me quite by surprise. One of the members was said to be the owner of a large department store in town. He had a gold pocket watch that struck me as rather peculiar."

"In what way?"

"Well, the watch itself was rather plain, but the chain had red and black ribbons woven throughout it. I would not have thought it remarkable beyond affectation if another man in the group, Mr. Ackermann I think his name was, had not displayed a similar color scheme with a trio of ribbons on his pocket. But he was a laborer, the only one in the meeting, so it seemed odd that they would both wear such colors. Might they have some particular meaning?"

"They do, but not what you are anticipating, I expect. Those are the colors the 1848 revolutionaries used for their flag. It's a bold move to display the colors so openly, even a child would understand the meaning of such an act."

"If you would indulge me?"

"It is a slap in the face to the monarchy," Quentin provided.

"To put it politely, yes," Roger continued. "And to the Prussians in general. By taking the Black and White in the Empire's Flag and replacing it with the Black and Gold they are effectively declaring their enmity with the Empire and their allegiance to the creation of the German Republic. Further, it declares them Liberals and, by the very nature of the thing, in conflict with the Catholic majority of this city."

"So they are already primed toward rebellion and Mr. Menning has gifted them with a Revolution," I said.

Roger nodded.

"Mr. Biddel would have been a young man during the Rebellion," Dinah pondered aloud. "But that was forty years ago. To hold on for so long..."

"I believe it might be in our best interest to look into Mr. Biddel's history," I said. "Menning said he was a leader in their church, but now I wonder if that position has less to do with his means than might be assumed."

"What was his position do you gather?" Roger asked.

"When Mr. Menning is away he leads the Wednesday group and the Sunday Service. He also seems to serve as the benefactor of the group, renting the room for the meetings as well as opening his home to hold the Sunday Services," Dinah answered.

"So they have a Sunday Service as well?" Quentin asked.

"Yes, Mr. Menning invited us. It sounds as if it is little more than a house church."

"Perhaps when you attend I might accompany you?"

"Not this week," I said. "But perhaps in a fortnight. We have laid the foundation for you but it would be a rather extraordinary thing for you, as a pastor, to come so readily. He would likely think you were only there in an attempt to sabotage his efforts to convert us."

"I cannot deny that would be the most likely scenario," Quentin conceded.

"Beyond that, I think it best to give Menning more time to become better acquainted with us without a chaperone."

Quentin appeared ready to object but I cut him off, "Our best chance to convince him to take us to their home location is through the strength of our bonds with him. We need him to truly believe our situation is dire and that he may lose us as converts if we are not immediately taken in. He is interested in Dinah, more than in passing, and we must use that to our advantage."

A horrified look painted Quentin's visage in a strange pallor, "Dinah, does this deception not bother you?"

"Brother, I would be lying if I said my conscience was not piqued by it. But I have only to think of those agents ki-..." a visible lump rose in her throat. She swallowed hard, her eyelashes aflutter. "Killed. And I am certain God would forgive me for playing the coquette once in my life. I have sworn him no oaths. If he chooses to believe my affection to be genuine then it is his error. Only please let me do something for him- for them!" Her black eyelashes were rimmed with water as she pleaded with her brother.

Quentin pulled her into an embrace. "If you must," he murmured. "But please be careful. If he thinks you are making a game of his affections..."

I placed a hand on Quentin's shoulder, "I will do everything in my power to make certain that does not happen."

There was a loud noise of glass hitting wood. We started, our eyes fixed on the man who still sat by the fireplace, empty glass on the table by his side.

"If there is nothing else, I believe I will be turning in for the night. I have an early morning planned. Good night." And with that he stood up and went to his room without another word.

* * *

I awoke at the break of day, unable to sleep for a reason I could not quite determine. It was although my mind were on fire from some string of thoughts I could not consciously engage. From outside I heard the dull thud of wood being chopped. Resigning myself to an early morning I got up and went to the window expecting to see Quentin at the stump cutting wood. Instead it I saw Roger. He was in his shirtsleeve slightly obscured by a large hillock so I could not make out precisely what he was doing, though he did not appear to be chopping wood. He wiped an arm across his brow. He looked down for a moment, then knelt to the ground. There was another hollow thunk and a moment later Roger rose, pulling on his coat. He straightened his cufflinks and began to walk to the lean-to, a long handled tool dangling at his side. I rushed from the window to the door, only taking a moment to check my appearance in the mirror to ensure it was satisfactory. The kitchen was still cold, a new fire only now waging war against the chill of morning. I opened the kitchen stove and, blowing upon the grey ash, discovered the warm orange glow of a few remaining embers. I threw a handful of tinder in to stoke the fire. In minutes the iron began to warm. I put the kettle on.

A few minutes later I ventured into the grey light of the early dawn. The frost tickled the naked skin of my feet where my slippers did not cover. I arrived at the lean-to to find Roger at work at something obscured by his back. I froze a moment, but will myself to go on. Roger's head snapped toward the sound of my step on the frosted grass.

"I thought you might like a cup of tea," I said, offering him one of the steaming cups in my hands.

"Thank you, Miss Moore. That would be delightful."

As he took the cup from my hand and sipped I was able to catch a glimpse at the table upon which lay two guns, a pistol and a rather large piece that probably rivaled my father in age, as well as a number of small tools and a bottle of oil. Roger set his tea down on the corner of the table and returned to the guns, running a little brush down the barrel of the silver pistol. He glanced over at me a moment, then returned his gaze back to his work.

"We need to purchase a new dress for you."

"What?"

"A new dress," he repeated placing the pistol on the table and oiling a white cloth.

"What is wrong with my dress?"

"To begin with: that you only have three."

"I did not anticipate that I would be traveling for an extended period of time or I would have brought more."

"That in no way negates that such circumstances have come to pass and you will need more clothing."

I pondered his point for a moment. It was true, I was woefully under prepared and I could not make do with only three dresses for much longer. But how I abhorred shopping for such things! Being measured and poked and prodded and standing still for interminably long periods as the seamstress stuck me with pins because invariably the waist was too wide and the sleeves too short. "I suppose after Dinah and Quentin wake up we could all go into town..."

"No, I believe it would be best if it were just you and I today. There is some research I would like to do while we are out." He spun the barrel of the pistol and snapped it into place.

* * *

We arrived at the massive department store at a quarter of nine. The building was painted a deep, velvety blue with great golden lettering that spanned beyond the doorway so far as to almost traverse the display windows reading: Biddel and Bott's. The store was already open despite the early hour, no doubt to serve those who suddenly found themselves in need. A workman in coveralls was cleaning one of the great display windows through which a number of new Spring dresses stood on display. As we walked through the door a little bell rang announcing our entrance. A trim, well appointed man of early middle age carrying a folded sheaf of fine fabric came forward from nowhere to greet us. Looking down his spectacles at us I immediately recognized him as Mr. Maier.

"Good Morning Sir. Ah Miss Kepler," he said. "How may I assist you today?"

"You've met this man before, Philomena?" Roger asked, eyeing Mr. Maier suspiciously.

Mr. Maier immediately realized his error and stared in mute terror at the man who was supposedly my Uncle.

"Don't be silly, Uncle! It was only yesterday Dinah and I were out shopping. Have you already forgotten?" I said.

Mr. Maier released a silent breath of relief.

"How would you expect me to remember when you did not bring back anything?"

"Uncle, when women shop they do not always do so for the purpose of purchasing things." I chided Roger in the same way my mother chided me so many times for being anti-social by not accompanying the other women on their frivolous excursions into town to not purchase anything but rather to gawk at windows and gossip.

"Regardless. Mr..."

"Sorry, Mr. Maier," the clerk said, regaining his bearing.

"Mr. Maier. My niece is in need of a number of dresses. At least four and a funeral dress."

"But Uncle, Grandmother is so much improved!" I protested.

"My dear, it is best not to believe in wishes but in reason. The doctor has pronounced the verdict and it is our duty to prepare for it."

"Yes, Uncle," I said dejectedly.

"If you will follow me," Mr. Maier said, gesturing into the shop.

"What are your thoughts on this dress, Uncle?" I said, presenting myself in a pale green dress decorated with a pattern of tiny pink rosebuds.

"Turn around," Roger ordered.

I did as I was told.

"It will do. If you would, try the pink one next."

"Good Afternoon!" a vaguely familiar voice boomed. I turned to see the rotund man from the meeting, his arms outstretched in the benevolent manner of a Ringmaster about to share the glories of the world with the less fortunate. "My name is Mr. Otto Biddel and I am the owner of this establishment."

Roger stood and curtly shook Mr. Biddel's proffered paw of a hand, "Mr. Johann Kepler. This is my niece, Miss Philomena Kepler."

"Lovely to make your acquaintance, Miss Kepler," he said, pressing my palm.

"Thank you, sir."

"How are you finding everything at my humble shop, Mr. Kepler?"

"It is satisfactory," Roger answered in a tone that might suggest he had instead suggested he go to the Deuce and a glare that conveyed Mr. Biddel might find the company there far more accommodating.

"I see you have found one of my wife's favorite dresses. It suits the Lady quite well, would you not agree?"

"Yes," Roger answered.

"However, for truly magnificent quality I would recommend Mey & Edlich. We just received a shipment of their new Spring line. We have not yet put them on the shelves, but, for the Lady, I believe we might be able to arrange a preview."

I looked to Roger with pleading eyes.

He sighed, "I suppose."

"Very good!" Mr. Biddel clapped his hands sharply, "Marie! Take Miss Kepler to the dressing room closest the office."

A skeletal red-haired woman in black appeared from nowhere and, taking my hand, began to drag me off. Roger made to follow me but Mr. Biddel held up both hands to stop him.

"If you would wait here, Mr. Kepler."

"I would prefer not to be separated from my niece," Roger said, seeming to be attempting to pass by Mr. Biddel who was determinedly blocking the spy's path.

"All will be well, I assure you. But I cannot allow men into the private dressing rooms in the back. A number of our wealthier female clients rely on that space for privacy." Mr. Biddel had managed to maintain his jovial demeanor but was clearly perturbed by my Uncle's persistence.

"If you insist," Roger grumbled, returning to his seat.

"Marie will take good care of her." I heard Mr. Biddel say as I was dragged off to the back of the store.

Marie took me to a back room where a vast number of dresses hung on racks amongst walls of boxes and crates. Marie led me to a box as tall as myself, cut open from the top to the middle in which hung a number of fine dresses. She removed a few, one at a time, holding them up to me and either staring impassively or frowning, then either draping them over her arm or else over the edge of the box depending on her expression. A door opened in the back of the room where I presumed the office must be.

"Miss Kepler, I am sorry to drag you from your companion but I felt I must speak with you most urgently," Mr. Biddel said. "If you would please step into my office?"

I looked around nervously, and then nodded.

"Come in, come in," he said ushering me into the space. It was not a large room by any definition, but quite sufficient for desk and chairs it held. A second door was set on the opposite side of the room, the word 'Buro' was written backward on the patterned glass in gold and black lettering. A number of portraits, ribbons, and trophies decorated the room. The largest was a yellowed portrait of Mr. Biddel, as rotund as ever, beaming from behind a young woman and two children in their late teenage years. Surrounding the bottom of the right corner were three infant portraits, far newer than the center portrait.

"Are these your grandchildren?" I asked, pointing to the pictures.

"Yes, the one in the corner is Lissete, she's almost ten years old now and she begs me to take down this picture every time she visits me. Kurt is just above her, he's the son of my boy, Erich. The one to the left is my heart, Ebba. She is two." The baby with pale curls beamed at me from the wall.

"Who is that man?" I pointed to a picture that hung above the upper left corner of the portrait. It was of a young man, square of jaw with his hair neatly parted to the side, his hat was held under his arm while the handle of a saber protruded from his hip. He wore a uniform of some military appearance. The style I was not familiar with. The tunic was black with another color for the facing, long black boots covered the knee with pale breeches above. Behind him a flag hung limply from a pole. It consisted of three even stripes: the middle a black band surrounded on either side by a stripe the same color as the facing. Imposed upon the stripes was a branch of some sort, but it was impossible to identify what plant, in particular, it was meant to represent.

"That is my maternal grandfather."

"He was a soldier?"

"He would have told you he was a philosopher, not a soldier. But like so many other university students of Jena, when duty called he was quick to answer. He was a member of the Lützowsche Jäger corps. When he returned he joined the Urburschenschaft which is when this picture was taken." He took the watch from his pocket and looked at it, the gold chain with its interwoven ribbons sparkled brightly under the lights.

"Did you ever meet him?"

"Yes, when I was young he used to live with us. I dare say I idolized him." There was a wistful, dreamy quality to Mr. Biddel's voice as he spoke. "He told us many a fireplace tale of his battles both against Napoleon and in Frankfurt."

"Frankfurt?" I knew I was poorly versed in German history, but I could not recall any military battles in Frankfurt in the past hundred years.

"It is of little consequence, it was quite a long time ago and to even begin the story would require more time then I believe can be spared. And the matter I wish to discuss is a great deal more urgent than lost wars."

"What is it you wish to speak with me about."

"It is rather a delicate matter, and I beg your pardon if I am not equal to its proper conveyance, but still I feel it necessary to attempt."

"What is it, Mr. Biddel?"

"It is in regards to your Uncle Johan. After you arrived Mr. Maier came to alert me of your coming. However, he was deeply troubled and when press he revealed to me he was concerned regarding the way your Uncle looked at you."

"And in what way was that?"

"Forgive me, but he said it was not the way a man should look at a woman engaged to another. I chided him, of course, for making such accusation but I decided to make certain and I am sorry to say it was as he said."

"Mr. Biddel, I assure you that while my Uncle harbors a deep affection for me, but it is of a paternal nature. He has known me since my infancy and has never acted in an untoward manner in my regard. He has never been anything but kind and generous to myself and my fiance. I will admit he has been more attentive than usual, but I am certain that is due to the difficulty of my Grandmother's ongoing illness. A man cannot be faulted for clinging to the only family he has."

"More attentive in what ways?"

"I am certain that is none of your affair." I feigned offense but maintained enough of a concerned knit to my brow to make it appear as though he might have struck a chord.

"Forgive me, it is only that you remind me so much of my own daughter I feel a certain fatherly protectiveness for you. A man's affections can turn very quickly from fondness to love; but when crossed a man may become cruel and dangerous."

"Let me see if I understand you: you believe my Uncle to be in love with me?"

"If I had not seen it with my own eyes I would not have mentioned it. But there could be no mistaking it. It is as you say and since you are engaged I am deeply concerned for your safety."

I had to give Roger his due. I had not even noticed this act but, judging by the concerned reactions of Mr.'s Maier and Biddel, it was a rather brilliant stroke. I began to pace about the room nervously.

"Are you certain?"

"Yes."

"Oh dear. Oh dear dear dear. Mr. Biddel, I am not sure what to make of this information."

"You said he had been more attentive than usual?"

"Yes, he has been making an effort to spend more time alone with me. The other night I stayed up to read by the fire, he stayed up to fix the stall, but then he came over to speak with me and said some things that left me rather discomfited. It was what he said, but the way inwhich he said them that was odd. And even this morning he did not wish for me to wake Dinah or Quentin to accompany us out." The best lies were those that were hewn close to the truth for they altered the aspect the least. A tale of pure fantasy could show on the face and be difficult to recall, but a lie based on true events showed the same engagement of the brow as memory.

Mr. Biddel did not need further prodding to catch my suggestion for he replied, "Forgive me, but you did not wake Miss Underhill when you left?"

"No, Dinah is staying with her brother, she would not have heard me get up." I spoke the last words slowly as if on the cusp of a revelation I dared not acknowledge.

At this, Mr. Biddel's face drained of color. "You mean to say you are not sharing a room with Miss Underhill?"

"No. Uncle Johann said it would be best if I was allowed privacy given my Grandmother's illness. I thought it a great kindness. That I could mourn in peace. Do you suppose he may have had an ulterior motive in such an act."

"For your sake I hope it was mere coincidence, but I urge you to be careful. It may be nothing more than a fancy on his part that he would never dare dream of acting on."

He went to his desk and dashed off a note which he handed to me with a great deal of urgency.

"Miss Kepler, please know if you ever find the need to leave your Uncle's house for any reason you may stay at my house as long as you require. You will not be imposing for we have plenty of empty rooms and my wife will certainly welcome you."

"There is no need for you to worry," I said, attempting to hand the paper back to him. "I am perfectly able to afford my own accommodations if need be."

"Keep it, just in case." Mr. Biddel said, rebuffing my attempt. "At the very least you will need it if you intend to attend Sunday Service. Mr. Menning told me to expect you."

"Oh, of course. I almost forgot. What time is the meeting?"

"It is at ten in the morning."

I pursed my lips as though thinking.

"I know it is a bit late but it allows some of our members who have obligations to attend Mass with their families to do both," Mr. Biddel said apologetically.

"That is very accommodating."

"It does us no good to say to a man that he must choose between his loved ones and us at the very outset - he should balk before our message is even spoken. When you have the truth and they the lies it only benefits you to have the comparison so starkly presented. We trust in God that the truth will win out so why should we fear?"

"I understand. Dinah and I should be able to get away for a few hours. We shall say we are going into town for lunch. It will not be a lie if we put it that way."

"No, it would not be."

I tucked the note into my bag, "Thank you Mr. Biddel, but I must go, my Uncle will be wondering at my prolonged absence and I still have yet to try on any of the dresses."

"My apologies again, Miss Kepler." He took a moment to look me over from toe to top, "I think the cream dress with the brown trim would be best for you. After forty years in the business I tend to have an eye for these things. It was lovely to see you again so soon." Taking my hand he gave a slight bow.

"Yes, it was my pleasure as well.

* * *

We left the shop almost an hour later still empty-handed for all of the dresses required at least some alteration. As we walked out of sight of the shop I began to pick up my pace until I was moving at a fair trot with Roger having to jog to keep up.

"I'd' like to visit the Library before we go back to the house," I said.

"Do I have any say in the matter?"

"No."

"Of course not." Roger smirked. "What did you find out from Mr. Biddel?"

"Little of consequence, but there was one thing that caught my attention. On his wall he had a picture of his maternal great-grandfather, but none of his other relatives. He spoke of his grandfather of his idol. He said the man was from Jena - that he was part of Lützowsche Jäger corps and the Urburschenschaft, whatever those might be."

"I know I've heard of those before but I cannot place them."

"Yes, Mr. Biddel said his Grandfather had fought Napoleon and then in Frankfurt. He called it a lost war."

"That does not bear though, the German States did not lose the war against Napoleon. Even if he meant Napoleon III that was still a decisive victory."

"I thought as much. But there were no battles fought in Frankfurt, at least, I cannot recall hearing of any."

"Admittedly I know little of the Prussian wars, but I wonder if he may have had a different meaning."

"What are your thoughts?"

"That it is a very fine day to do some research."

* * *

"Look here!" I cried pointing to a picture in a large book I supported with the other hand. "These uniforms are the same as the ones the young man was wearing."

Roger, who knelt beside me scanning a lower shelf, gently took the book from me, "Der Studentenleben, Jenaer Burschenschaftler. The Jena Student's League..." he read aloud. He ran his finger along as he read. Below us a number of books were spread open upon the floor forming a bizarre nest around us. This one told of the Napoleonic Wars, that one was opened to a chapter on Lutzow's Rifles (the Lützowsche Jäger corps Mr. Biddel had mentioned), the book Roger held was a history of Jena University. I was thankful for his presence as he was able to read the books far faster than I, though I was far better at finding useful materials inwhich to set his skill upon. "It seems the Urburschenschaft was a fraternity formed in the ensuing years following Napoleon's defeat. They espoused strong liberal and nationalistic ideals... This is interesting."

"What is it?"

"Apparently the President of the 1848 Frankfurt Parliament was one of its founding members," Roger said. "That must have been what Biddel meant about lost wars."

"I don't follow."

"You recall the Revolutions that occurred over Europe in the late 1840's?"

"Vaguely, I recollect that none were successful."

"That is correct. In Germany they got as far as setting up their own Parliament in Frankfurt. It for survived almost a year before it was forcibly disbanded. It seems the Jena Student's League was a major proponent of the revolution."

"Biddel would not have mentioned a battle in Frankfurt had his grandfather not been there. I wonder..." In seconds I had a pile of almost a dozen books with Frankfurt in the title before me.

"You wonder what?" Roger asked as I flipped through the books with remarkable speed.

"Biddel idolized his grandfather; he would have been a young man when the revolution broke out, probably less than twenty years and his grandfather still in his prime - I wonder if he followed his grandfather to Frankfurt to fight with the very Student's League he had heard so much about in his youth."

I continued to scour the books, for any photographs or mentions of the Biddel name.

"Here!" I cried, holding the book before Roger's eyes. A sturdy looking youth, no older than fifteen, if that, in what was clearly his grandfather's uniform appeared to be amongst those fighting against what looked to be some form of Prussian Guard. "I am almost certain that is Mr. Biddel."

"How can you tell it is him?"

"He bears an almost uncanny resemblance to his son at the same age."

"So Mr. Biddel was a revolutionary. He would have held a special rank with the Liberals of Munster then."

"From the deference and respect he is given it would not surprise me if he were their leader.

"Strange though, Liberals tend toward the separation of church from State. Does he seem like he may be playing his own game?"

I don't believe so. His faith is quite genuine. It may be he does not recognize it as an intrusion upon the State."

"Or he does not care if it is, so long as it wrests control from the Catholics and into the hands of the true church. Convert the leader and assume control of the group. Clever. Very clever."

"I should mention, he believes you are in love with me and fears you may attempt to put me in a bad situation."

"What?" Roger cried in mock surprise.

"Really, brilliant acting on your part. I am certain by week's end they will be much more inclined to deliver us from your clutches if they fear lechery."

Roger turned back to his book, "Good then."


	15. Chapter 15

Word of my lecherous Uncle spread through the leadership of the group so quickly that by the time Dinah and I attended our first service Menning took me aside into the delivery room just before the start.

"Miss Kepler," he spoke with a quiet urgency. "Mr. Biddel has related to me some distressing information regarding you Uncle."

He was so close in that little corner I could feel the breath from his words upon my face.

I simpered so as to attempt to conceal the pounding in my chest. Dinah might be able to maintain a sense of calm with this man, she seemed to believe him innocent of the murders, however, I was not yet ready to extend to him such charity. But then, her background was clear, even a check would reveal her story to be true; that she was merely a curate's daughter. I, on the other hand, would fare less well under scrutiny. "Oh it's nothing, I assure you. A simple misunderstanding."

I attempted to leave and rejoin Dinah as quickly as I could but Mr. Menning caught the lacy hem of my sleeve.

"Wait a moment, Miss Kepler," he requested. But I was already in motion as he spoke and thus unable to stop him from pulling my sleeve just enough that the collar of my dress slid from my neck. He dropped my wrist. "What was that?"

A shock of horror shot through me like a bolt of lightening. It was without thought that my first words spill forth in an instant plea, "Please don't tell Dinah!"

It was all the confession needed to confirm the story. I glimpsed my face in the mirror and saw it had gone white with fear.

"You cannot stay there."

"Please, he has been rebuffed, he swore he would not do such a thing again. It was a misunderstanding."

Menning took me by both my upper arms, "Misunderstandings of that nature often come to understandings with starling clarity. It is not safe for you there. Mr. Biddel can take you all in. If it is staying with me that concerns you I can remove myself to the Kaiser's farm."

"No, it is not that at all. It is only..." I hung my head in shame that was not entirely of fiction, "How would I explain to Quentin why we all had to leave so suddenly?"

"If he truly loves you he will understand it was not your fault."

"But it was my fault that I concealed it. He is a trusting soul; it would be a breach of that trust I fear that I could not bridge. Please. My Uncle has made no inappropriate overtures toward me since the incident. At least, give me a few weeks."

"I won't force you, though your Uncle should be jailed for his lechery. But know if anything happens you need only come to us and we will protect you."

"Thank you. But now I really must find Dinah, they have already begun the first hymn."

"I believe she is in one of the chairs against the wall."

I barely heard those last words as I let the crush of people swarming to the dining room take me along in their current.

The service itself was not terribly unlike the one at the little Lutheran church we had attended only the week before but that it was much larger, so many that they could not fit in a single room - even though the dining room was large and the majority were seated on the floor (though not Dinah and I, Biddel would not hear of us sitting on the floor and seated us in the dining chairs that lined the side of the room) a number were forced to sit in the hall and even going up the stairs. I estimated there were at least one hundred in attendance, while Dinah put the number closer to one hundred twenty. Menning's sermon was a passionate plea to acts of generous charity in our daily lives. His citations of scripture came so fast and so freely I was almost overwhelmed. No sooner had he spoken of the command that if a man compels you to go with you one mile that you go with him two, explaining that it was the right of any Roman Soldier to compel a citizen of Rome to help carry their load for one mile that it bore witness to the love of Christ within the heart of the believer to not only do as the law required, but to go beyond it, then he was on to the story of Elijah and the Widow at Zarephath. It was a dizzying speech of such emotional and mental engagement and so compelling performed I felt as though I had run a mile by the time it had ended. Dinah veritably glowed from the ecclesiastical exercise - a glow that remained through lunch to the very door of the cottage were Menning saw us off.

After the third week I was able to plausibly introduce Quentin into the group. I could tell it was difficult for him to stifle his objections to the perversions of the gospel Menning would invoke and play the future convert. In truth, I had hoped to wait another week before introducing him, but I feared Dinah and Menning were growing too close and hoped the presence of her brother would distract Menning, who still insisted on walking us home even though we no longer had need of his attendance.

Still, despite my worries, I had to admit it was amusing to watch the trio fall into impassioned debate about some obscure piece of scripture. On this particular day the debate was regarding the interpretation of the meaning of the word spirit in a particular verse. Dinah had brought into the question the context of the period and the usage of the word in other verses in both the New and Old Testament to determine how the meaning might have been interpreted at the time. Menning had queried how the meaning might be altered if the word spirit were meant to refer to the Holy Spirit to which Quentin replied as to the Greek word used and why the writer had likely chosen to interpret it as 'spirit' and not 'Spirit'. It was at this juncture Menning brought forth the question of Baptism by the Holy Spirit.

It was the first time he had mentioned Baptism at all and though he did not press the point it was clear he had not used the word without intention.

The following Wednesday Mr.'s Menning, Fuchs, Ackermann, and Kaiser were not in attendance at the meeting. Mr. Biddel took the opportunity to announce that Miss Betzen had declared her intention to be baptized and would be so attended to at the Sunday Service with three other converts including, much to my disappointment, Mr. Lantz. I had been glad to see Mr. Lantz had not returned the following week. However, I later heard Mr. Biddel request that Miss Betzen see if she might convince him to return. The effort had, apparently, worked splendidly for he did return and remained a close companion of Miss Betzen from that moment onward, much to the temporary chagrin of Mr. Maier. But this was relieved by the introduction of Miss Betzen's three beautiful younger sisters to the gathering. Mr. Biddel asked if there were any others among the group who wished to be baptized. Impulsively I made to raise my hand but Quentin held it down.

"Why? It is only water." I whispered.

He simply shook his head.

The absent quartet had returned by Sunday with no word as to where they had been. Even when Dinah tried to wheedle it from him, Menning only smiled enigmatically at her. Mr. Fuchs was in fine spirits which the baptism service only seemed to improve. Despite the chill in the air, Menning led us all down to the river to perform the ceremony.

I managed to catch up with Menning as we walked. "Might it be more prudent to wait until the weather is fair? Or simply pour the water from a pitcher?" I asked.

"Prudent? Perhaps. But when has following the word of God been prudent?" he said with a smile. "In order to enter the faith one must be immersed in whole in the waters of baptism, signifying the full death of the old and the birth of a new creation in God. We must sanctify the whole, not just a few of the parts, or else what is the point of the rite of baptism?"

"But you yourself acknowledged it simply as symbolic, so why not alter it and spare these people the pains of freezing?"

"Symbolic yes, but not simply so. The ceremony was specifically granted to our prophetess from God's own messenger during her years of exile in the wilderness." He began to recite the words from memory, " _The person who is called of God and has authority from Jesus Christ to baptize, shall go down into the water with the person who has presented himself or herself for baptism, and shall say, calling him or her by name: Having been commissioned of Jesus Christ, I baptize you in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen. Then shall he immerse him or her in the water, and come forth again out of the water._ So you see? To alter it would be to defy God's own command. The word of the Lord is not always easy to follow, it is not prudent but audacious. If we compromise on such integral commands for the mere reason of comfort at the very beginning of life, then what commands are sacred? What is to stop us from compromising on any principle. If the first true act of obedience is a challenge to our comfort then how very blessed are we for we have already withstood our first test. How much easier is the rest of the journey if the first step is difficult. Not because it is actually easier, but because we now anticipate the challenge."

I hoped those words provided him consolation while he stood in the river. I watched one by one as the people lined up for baptism plunged into the water, were submersed, and arose shivering. How Menning was able to comport himself as though unbothered by the temperature I could not imagine for by the time he declared the ceremony over his face was almost white and his lips a pale blue. Soaked to his chest, he staggered up from the water on benumbed bare feet. He slipped on a rock I was certain his feet could not feel and Quentin caught him by the arm, hoisting him the remainder of the way. Once on the bank of the river the witnesses greeted him with towels. Mr. Biddel wrapped a thick coat around his shoulders.

"You must be freezing!" Dinah exclaimed as she wrapped her own scarf around Menning's neck.

"It is not so bad as it seems. Though I do hope when it comes to be your time the weather will be fairer."

"Yes," her cheeks, already pink from the wind, seemed to glow brighter. "I hope so as well."

My stomach twisted at her words. Despite knowing it to be an act, I could not help but note a sincerity in her gaze that made me question whether it were wholly fiction.

The ceremony was followed by a meeting at Mr. Biddel's house inwhich the four church leaders, Menning, Biddel, Kaiser, and Streigel called upon the Holy Spirit to come into and inhabit the new converts. It was not until it was almost evening that we were finally able to return home.

* * *

"I was wondering, what is 'center'? Two of the men were discussing it at length after the meeting today, they did not seem particularly fond of it. Does it have a particular religious significance?" I pondered aloud as I sipped my tea.

"You mean Mr. Fuchs and Mr. Ackermann? Yes, I noticed them as well," Quentin remarked. "But I was at a loss as to what they were discussing. Though Fuchs seemed to be in rather a high passion about it."

"Something about God's judgement being upon the center."

Roger raised an eyebrow and placed his glass on the table beside him. He had taken to drinking whiskey more frequently after supper; or, at least, it seemed so. Though perhaps this was his normal habit and I had not been with him enough under normal circumstances to have noticed it.

Quentin seemed to ponder a moment, "It could be an allusion to Jerusalem which Ezekiel calls the center of the nations."

Roger loudly shuffled his newspaper before folding it in half and placing it next to the glass. "I am sorry to have to contradict your expertise, but in this instance you are incorrect, Mr. Underhill. Fraction of the Centre, or Centre as it has come to be called, is a political organization dedicated to advancing Catholic causes in the German Government. It is because of them this safe house was purchased. In the early years of the organization, when it was still the Catholic Club, we began monitoring it. There were a number of rumors that they intended to use violence to overthrow the Prussian Diet. Of course there was no truth to it and the group disappeared from public life for almost a score until they reformed near 17 years past to oppose Von Bismark's Kulturkampf."

Roger stood up, and taking the bucket of ashes that sat on the flagstone at the edge of the hearth, he threw them upon the fire, smothering it.

"What are you doing?" Dinah cried in alarm, dropping her knitting.

Roger did not answer her but knelt on the stone shelf before the fireplace, his head and upper body leaning inside the place where the fire had only just been.

"There was a particularly large faction that sprouted in Westphalia. Their current leader, Ludwig Windthorst was born only thirty miles from Munster." His words were somewhat broken by his efforts in the fireplace. From my vantage point I could see his fingers searching the wall until he found what he was seeking. "Ah, there it is." There was the sound of wood scraping against stone as he removed a board, blackened by soot and covered by thin stones designed to look like bricks. He placed the large board on the floor so that it leaned against the shelf. The whole of his upper body disappeared into the blackness as he contorted himself into what appeared to be a small room. He twisted and for a moment all but his lower half was swallowed up. It looked as though he were trying to climb up behind the chimney. Then he righted himself and slowly backed out of the fireplace, face smudged with soot, a weathered black metal box in his hands. He did not bother to replace the board but left it where it lay as he took the box over to the table and began working the combination lock.

Dinah, Quentin, and I all marveled at the place where the back of the fireplace had been only moments before where now a small room, big enough for one person to crouch inside, was now revealed. Quentin immediately went over to inspect the false back while I ventured into the fireplace, sticking my head into the small room.

"Extraordinary," I breathed, craning my neck to see above me where I could just discern the silhouette of a small shelf. I ran my fingers across the rough surface of the shelf. Despite the fire that had only moments ago been raging in front of it, the room felt cool.

"Mina, have a look at this," Quentin called.

I slowly backed out of the fireplace to find he and Dinah examining the board.

"Soapstone," he said. He rubbed his thumb and forefinger together, stared at the whitish powder that sparkled slightly from upon his thumb and then tapped it to his tongue, "painted with crushed rock salt."

"What would be the purpose of that?" I asked.

"Rock salt is capable of absorbing heat without becoming hot. Soapstone possesses a high specific heat capacity - that means it takes a lot of heat to raise the temperature of soapstone a single degree," he provided seeing the confusion on our faces. He ran his fingers over the surface of the board upon which the stone facade had been attached, "I'm not certain the type of wood but it is very dense. Probably meant as the final line of defense."

"Against?"

"The heat of the fire. I would guess the room is meant to hide an individual if anyone were to come looking for them. The salt, soapstone and wood are meant to absorb enough heat that the person within would not be adversely affected if a fire were to be started in the fireplace."

"That is exactly the purpose," Roger said, the sound of a metallic click gave us to know he had succeeded in decoding the lock. "Fires do tend to discourage searches. Now, if you would please join me..."

"How long have you known about the room?" I asked as we joined Roger at the table where he was removing a number of files from the box and placing them on the wooden plane before us.

"I had my suspicions from the moment we arrived, the back of the fireplace is just a bit too large," he answered as a matter of course, as though I should have noticed as much, or at the very least suspected it. "These houses are built with a number of security measures. There is also a tunnel in the second stable on the left that leads to a false hillock just behind the house and a fake wall in the attic, though that has been damaged beyond easy repair. The box," he continued, placing a file in front of me, "is an emergency measure, meant to keep important documents related to the case safe should the agent be killed."

"Why did you not show us this before?"

"I did not think it particularly relevant to the case. Centre has been a major party in German politics for over a decade without incident. I had no desire to endure the cold to indulge in an exercise of irrelevance."

I suspected a chill was not the only reason for his secrecy. Roger had always struck me as one who believed a secret was best kept by not being told. I shifted through the pages of the file in front of me. It appeared to be records of the comings and goings of people long unobserved. Quentin stood beside me, spreading out a series of photographs.

"Wait a moment!" I quickly stopped his hand as he was about to cover one of the photos. I moved the sepia toned picture away from the others. Scrawled in large script across the upper portion of the photograph, just above the heads of its subjects were the words: 'Centre Munster, Deutschland 1871'. I squinted at the picture of a number of men standing in a line in front of a room that looked not unlike the inside of a tavern. It was the young man, standing just left of a distinguished older man with a large mustache, who had caught my eye. The young man was slim with a hawkish nose and sharp features. "It's Mr. Fuchs!" I exclaimed in surprise.

Dinah peered over my shoulder, reaching over she moved the picture that she might gain a better vantage point. "Yes, I believe you are correct."

"How very queer! Why would he be in a picture of an organization he so despises?"

Roger flipped through a pair of files designated 1871 and 1872, respectively.

"Here..." Roger spoke as he skimmed of file headed 1873. He placed a finger on a line of text and ran it across, moving it down with every line he read. "It seems Mr. Fuchs rose very quickly to become the right-hand man of the leader... Apparently he had designs to become the head of the Munster chapter of Centre. In 1873 the leader announced plans to step down for (the paper says) health concerns. But it seems rather than Mr. Fuchs, a Mr. Harriman was chosen to succeed him. According to the Agent's report Mr. Fuchs and his followers attempted a coup but he was foiled and, while he was not removed from the party, he was privately disgraced and stripped of all authority."

"His mood has been rather elevated since he returned..." I said.

Roger and I fixed each other with a look of mutual understanding. I stood, rifling through the files with a newfound urgency.

"Do any of these papers list Mr. Fuchs's address?" I asked.

"Here." Quentin handed over a file with a dossier on each of the Centre members. "What is it?"

"I have the name of the Tavern." Roger declared, holding up a paper.

"When do they meet?" I asked.

"Tonight at seven, in the upper room," Roger said, pulling on his coat.

"Then we haven't much time." I followed his lead, putting on my cloak and grabbing my umbrella.

"No." He took his pistol and spun the barrel then handed it to me. I regarded the thing quizzically. He thrust it forward, "Take it, you may need it."

I relented and tucked the weapon into my bag.

Quentin and Dinah sat as though stunned. Finally Quentin found his words, "What's going on? Where are you going?"

"To fetch Mr. Fuchs." Roger answered as he spun the large antique Russian pistol in his hand and shoved it into its holster.


	16. Chapter 16

As we approached Mr. Fuch's house I could see the windows of the first floor all aglow giving a welcoming appearance to the dark timber framed home. Ivy scaled the walls but in such a way that rather than evidence negligence on the part of the owner, it instead exemplified a fastidious nature. Smoke trailed from the chimney into the clear indigo sky of a late winter's evening. The yard was open and well maintained with large trees framing the scene giving the whole the appearance of an artist's idealized portrait of what a German house should be.

I stopped for a moment, leaning against a tree as my breath came quickly. I was badly winded from the exertion of the past few minutes. While we had not run the distance, our pace had been as close to that as might be possible. Roger stood beside me, watching with his hands resting on his hips.

"Well, come along," he said.

"A moment," I answered still leaning against the tree.

"We really do not have time for moments." He paused. "What are you thinking?"

"Give me your cuff link."

Roger made to undo both his cuff links.

"No just the one."

He handed the little golden circle over to me.

"Why do you need my cuff link?"

"A house of this size would likely have a kitchen door in the back. If he suspects anything (and I would imagine a man with a bomb would be apt to suspect even the slightest irregularity) he might attempt to flee."

"I'd rather not leave you alone back there if he were to come out."

"Which is perfectly acceptable as I will be at the front of the house."

"You?"

"Of course, it is the only sensible course of action. I am known to him. You would, in the best scenario, be a stranger knocking after dark and, at worst, he might recognize you as my lecherous Uncle and I doubt he could be persuaded your visit was merely out of jealousy. I'll tell him I found this cuff link at the meeting and thought it resembled the pair he was wearing."

Roger seemed as though he wished to speak but could find no grounds upon which to counter my argument. Finally, he exhaled deeply. "Do you have that pistol I gave you?"

"Of course. Though why you would give me the pistol when I already possess one in my umbrella is beyond my ken."

"Your pistol is a single shot, that may be sufficient to entice surrender when held against a man's head from behind, but in a face to face confrontation more shots may be required. Further, it would be best, in these circumstances, if the gun were immediately recognizable. Let us hope your aim has improved."

I shot him a glare that suggested further comment on that particular topic might lead him to regret giving me the weapon.

"Then go, there is no time to lose," he said.

I nodded.

I waited a few minutes for Roger to get into position before I approached the door. My nerves fluttered about my stomach like so many unpleasant butterflies as I reached for the knocker. If he were to see how my hand shook at this moment Roger would make such fun of me, I told myself as though to embarrass myself into proper comportment. I gripped the could metal ring in my pale hand. Stealing myself with a deep breath, I dropped the monstrous metal device. The sound of the metal upon metal echoed loudly in my ears, though I knew it to be only my fear that amplified the sound. I wondered if I would even be able to repeat the story I had concocted. There was no answer, not even so much as a stirring from inside the house. I knocked again, louder this time, almost out of offense that I had gone through so much trouble to even knock on the door and Mr. Fuchs could not even do me the basic courtesy of answering. Twice more I repeated my action yet the house remained still. My patience fully exhausted I crept to the window and peaked within.

Revealed to me was a sitting room bathed in golden lamplight, a fire danced merrily in the hearth causing me to shiver as my body recognized the chill it was currently subjected to and longed for the warmth of the room within. I twisted so as to gain a view of the door. The coat rack stood as stalwart footman, awaiting hat and coat to dress him once more. A sudden flash of motion caught my eye. Staring almost straight ahead I saw Roger doing precisely as I. I waved to catch his eye.

"He's not here," I mouthed.

Roger nodded and disappeared. I strained to see what he might be doing as though I had somehow gained the ability to see through walls in the past few moments. Suddenly the door opened beside me. I clutched me chest.

"James, you should not scare me like that. I might have cried out," I scolded the man who regarded me with a certain bemusement.

"No, you would not have," he said, gesturing me inside. "You are a Lady. Ladies faint. It would be beneath their dignity to cry out when startled and possibly cause a scene. Might I have my cuff link please?"

I thrust the broadside of my umbrella against his side as I passed, dropping the cuff link into his open palm. He smiled as though my action only served to provide him with greater amusement.

"How did you get inside anyhow?" I asked, stepping inside the sitting room.

Roger fanned out a set of narrow metal instruments between his thumb and forefinger.

"I should have guessed," I said as I inspected the sitting room, though a quick glance was all that was needed to see there was nothing to be found.

"Really, it was a silly question. I suspect sometimes you talk just to hear your own voice," he said as he put his cuff link back into its rightful place.

I glared at him. Suddenly there was a dull thud from above. The ceiling above us creaked loudly. Roger and I instantly turned to the darkened stairwell. Pulling his pistol, he shoved in front of me, foot planted on the first step in a shooter's stance, as the light sound of movement crept closer. There was a quick flash of light. I grabbed Roger's arm. I felt him tense under my grip.

"It's just a cat," I cried. The two green orbs flashed from the top of the stairs before disappearing. Roger's shoulders relaxed. Fearing there was no more danger of Roger alerting the entire neighborhood to our presence, I released him.

"A cat." Roger smirked as he holstered the heavy weapon.

"Well, there's nothing here. Shall we?" I said, picking up the oil lamp.

Roger nodded, "Though, perhaps, I should lead?"

"After you nearly shot the cat? Now, if you'll excuse me." I climbed the steep staircase the lamp held aloft before me. Three doors lined the hall. The left held only one door. Peaking inside I found a spacious master bedroom, well appointed in a manner that would suggest Mr. Fuchs preferred the company of opulence than humanity, for, of all the paintings that hung from the wall in ornate gilded frames not one was of a person. On the right was a guest bedroom which appeared as though it had not seen occupants in some time. I crept to the final door, mindful to avoid making noise despite the fact such precautions were not required. I opened the door,

"Oh dear." I took a few steps into the study.

The main body of the desk in the study was clear though the edges were covered with papers. Small sections of differently colored wires and a light dusting of black powder littered everything. A large satchel sat beside the desk in front of a wooden trunk. While it lacked the same contents as the hotel room in Brighton the feel was remarkably similar. I approached the desk carefully, holding the lamp in front of me.

"James, have a look at this."

At the top edge of the desk was spread a long piece of parchment upon which were drawn intricate pictures with detailed paragraphs beside them written in the same script and broken Franco-German dialect as the papers in Brighton. Roger stood behind me, looking at the paper over my shoulder.

"Here, at the bottom, it is signed _Va avec Dieu, Du Beauchene_. Odd, I don't recall seeing this name on the plans at the hotel, do you?"

"No," Roger answered kneeling in front of the wooden chest. I could hear the light scrape of the metal picks as they worked the tumblers of the built in lock.

"I don't think he would have left this if he did not plan to return. Whatever his mission I doubt he intends in to be his last," I mused aloud. "We had best take this with us." I rolled the parchment up and stuck it into the cotton cinch of my dress as the click of the lock alerted me to Roger's success.

The wood creaked as he lifted the lid but almost as soon as the sound began, it ceased.

"What do you think, James?" I asked absently as I shifted through the papers.

"Miss Moore, I need you to leave right now."


	17. Chapter 17

"Why?"I asked, alarmed.

He was kneeling next to the box, pick still in the lock, staring intently at the small gap between the box and the lid still held, suspended, in his hand.

"I seem to have tripped a security device. It seems to be pressure sensitive, the moment I take any pressure off the lock pick this entire house will be destroyed and likely half the street with it. The box is filled with dynamite. I need you to evacuate the neighborhood. I should be able to hold it still until then." His voice was steady but there was a desperate intensity which clipped his words.

"But you'll be killed!"

"A rather unfortunate circumstance I will admit, but not unforeseen. I suppose the reports of my death were only premature, not wholly false." How he managed a wry twitch of a smile at such a time I could not fathom.

"I'm not going to just leave you here to die," I resolved. His expression seemed to soften a moment before resuming its usual severity.

"There are dozens of people who may be killed when this bomb goes off."

"If this bomb goes off," I corrected. I knelt beside Roger, holding the lamp in an attempt to see inside the crack. A metal rod was extended from the lid to somewhere into the box where it disappeared. Within I could see the tan cylindrical sticks of our impending death. A dread fear rose within me at their sight - but this I could not afford to entertain.

"I see Quentin has had a bad influence on you." Roger smirked.

I chose to ignore this remark. "Move over so that I might see better."

"I would dearly love to be able to do so."

"Hell's bells!" I exclaimed, getting to my feet. "I can't see the mechanism he is using or where it is."

I began shuffling through the files speaking as I searched, "Mr. Fuchs is not particularly bright. I'm guessing this device was the design of the same Du Beauchene who designed the bombs. Were I he I would be strongly disinclined to trust the memory of such a man at the expense of so many explosives. Here!" I spread the plans out upon the desk, "It appears to be a simple striking plate design - though it has duel strikers and a toothed striking surface. It's a very queersome design, if you open it far enough to get into it it will spark, but the same is true if you attempt to close it after opening and seeing the contents. I would guess that is meant to direct the blast to the intruder." I glanced over to Roger who did not appear the least bit fascinated but this strange little design. I returned to the parchment, "The key has an elongated tip that pushes the rod away from the plate. If you raise or lower the lid any further it will strike the spark. He probably created the gap as a safety measure in case the box was jostled in transit but I wager you've exceeded it. I think I know a way to disarm it. I won't be a moment." I rushed off toward the kitchen.

"Take you time." I heard Roger call back.

* * *

"What is that monstrosity?" Roger less asked than declared, his whole being incredulous at the bizarre contraption before him.

"Your only hope of salvation," I answered indignantly.

"My salvation is sausage."

I knelt beside Roger and indicated a line below the lock, "The striking panel is against the side of the box, I'll need to direct enough water from the kettle to soak it thoroughly so that when the flint strikes it it will not spark and to ensure that I need tubing. If you would rather wait, I may be able to locate something more agreeable to your sensibilities. But most people do not leave narrow rubber tubes just lying about the sitting room, James." I said as I fed the makeshift tube of partially hollowed out hard sausage through the crack, the other end tied with butcher's string to the spout of a full kettle.

"Roger."

"What?" I said, looking up from my task.

"If I die I want it to be with my own name."

"You are not going to die, James."

"Humour me."

"Roger then."

"Mina." His tone was so matter-of-fact it seemed at odds with the way the word moved through me as though lightening down my spine. His dark eyes regarded me with not the least bit of mocking humor but within lurked a gentleness so unfamiliar to me from him. I supposed this to be the intimacy of those about to die. I turned away, not wishing to indulge the thought further. I took care to aim the makeshift tubing where the plan said the strike panel should be located trusting my intuition that Du Beauchene was as fastidious in the construction of his bombs as his sketches would suggest.

"The grease from the sausage may prove beneficial for coating the striking surfaces and rendering them permanently ineffective," I said watching the almost invisible shine of the water as it disappeared into the darkness.

"Miss Moore, I don't know if you are completely mad or brilliant."

"If I am mad, then we'll know it soon enough when St. Peter greets us at the gates." I tipped the last of the kettle's contents into the darkness, "There, that should be sufficient. If I am correct, you should be able to close the lid now."

I held my breath, attempting to appear confident in my plot though the shaking of my hands threatened to undo me. Not just my hands but my entire form! What was death like? I wondered.

"You can still make a run for it, you don't have to stay here," Roger offered.

"No," I said, resolutely; as though I had the ability to even move from where I was rooted.. "Th-there is no sense in expending energy needlessly. It will work."

"Then stay, you stubborn girl."

His face softened a moment.

"Say my name."

"Don't be silly."

"Just once more."

"James."

"You know what I mean."

"I'm sorry, Mr. Bond, but I am at a complete loss to understand your meaning."

"I can hold this all night."

"No you cannot."

"Please." There was a sad pleading in his eyes that stilled my contrary tongue.

I took a deep breath and braced for what was to come.

"Roger."

He closed the lid.

* * *

It took but a second to realize I was still very much alive.

"I suppose I am brilliant."

"Even the mad are correct on occasion," Roger said as he stood, brushing off his clothes.

I pursed my lips, shooting a glare so cutting I hoped the wound would never mend. To no effect.

Roger extended his hand to help me up, "Well, come on now, we've already lost too much time. The meeting shall be beginning soon."

"As you say, Roger."

"James," He corrected, smugly.

"Uncle," I returned as I stepped through the door frame.

He made a quick move toward me but I opened my umbrella in his face, repelling him back into the room.

"It's bad luck to open those things in the house."

"And worse to trust a dark haired man," I replied as I haughtily strolled to the stair, open umbrella resting upon my shoulder. "Come now, we're wasting time."

* * *

The tavern was only a few minutes walk from Mr. Fuch's house, though far enough that one was not within easy sight of the other. It was a sizable affair, pale plaster covered the outside walls giving it something of an other worldly glow in the moonlight. The second story front had four windows lined across it. Golden light shone from within revealed the shadows of figures moving about inside. Already the meeting was underway. Removing my sash, I tied it as a scarf so that it covered my head and face. Mr. Fuch's would be watching, though from where I could not discern, and to be recognized at this moment could prove troublesome. Roger and I followed another man who appeared to be in something of a hurry into the tavern and up the stairs. Despite it being a weeknight the place felt eerily abandoned; not even the bartender kept his post.

"I'm sorry I'm late," the man apologized as he entered the room.

A fat old man who bore a striking resemblance to that American wordsmith, Benjamin Franklin, checked his watch, "No need to worry Kurt, there's still a few minutes to spare. Might I ask who your friends are?"

The one called Kurt turned around and stared in bewilderment at Roger and I, apparently unaware in his rush that he was being followed.

Roger stepped into the room, "Allow me to introduce myself and my compatriot. I am Mr. James Bond of Her Majesty's Secret Service, and this is Agent M."

Low whispers broke out among those gathered.

"What can be the meaning of this?" a tall, handsome man of military bearing I recognized from the photographs as Harriman demanded.

"You are all in grave danger," Roger said. "In our investigations we have uncovered a plot to blow up this meeting."

"Our meeting? Why?" the old man sputtered.

"It must be one of Bismarck's agents," Harriman spat. "He's always hated us."

"No, it is a man called Fuchs. We believe he is known to you," I said.

"That Judas!" Harriman hissed though it might have been a shout for the weight it carried. The room instantly went silent. "Everyone, follow me." He started to the door.

"Wait!" I cried, blocking the door with my form. "Mr. Fuchs may be watching the building. We'll need to leave by a different way. If he thinks that you are leaving he may detonate the bomb."

"There is no other way," Harriman said.

"What about the hall window? It faces a blind alley, there is a fence that blocks the street," a young man suggested.

I walked to the hall window. It was as the young man said; better even than that, for the building next door which appeared to be a three story apartment house bathed the alley in darkness. I pulled open the window and stuck my head out. It was a sheer drop to the ground fifteen feet below, not far enough to require a fire escape but too far to be ensured of a safe landing. I returned to Roger's side.

"Do you see anything that might serve as a rope?" I whispered to him.

He regarded me with a raised brow. "Have you already forgotten your adventures at the pier?"

"I was hoping, perhaps, for something of a more traditional design. Practical men may be less comfortable with the concept of the silks."

"Well, they will have to make peace with that discomfort, I suppose," Roger whispered back. "Gentlemen, we have a way to get you out but you will have to do precisely as we tell you. Who is the strongest among you?"

"That would be I," a stocky, square of a man raised his hand.

"Very good, I will need you to hold the rope. Now, I want each of you to leave the room one at a time. You will need to walk as closely to the wall as possible to avoid being seen from the outside. Agent M and I will remain in the room with you until the last of you leaves."

"I volunteer for that role." Mr. Harriman stepped forward.

"Joseph, you can't! You have a wife and child at home!" the old man objected.

"As does Kurt, and Matthew, and Erich. What makes my life any more valuable than theirs? I am the leader of the group and that means I will go last."

"It should be myself. I am old, I've lived my life."

"They'll need me to help hold the rope for Hans. You would not be strong enough."

The old man made no more objection. I was impressed. Mr. Harriman seemed to intrinsically understand the plan and what would be required. It was quite clear why Mr. Harriman had been chosen as the successor over Mr. Fuchs.

Roger nodded, "Thank you for volunteering, Mr. Harriman."

Within minutes the room had been quietly evacuated and at last the number in the room dwindled to Roger, Harriman, and I. This would be the most dangerous part of the operation for once we left the room it would become instantly clear that the room was empty to even the most passive observer. We would have mere minutes before Mr. Fuchs became aware he had been tricked.

"Let's go," Roger said, stonily.

I followed the pair out of the room into the hallway where Hans waited. Roger and Mr. Harriman both gripped the rope as the stout young man disappeared out the window. A minute later Harriman released the rope and Roger wrapped the remainder around his wrist.

"May God bless you," Harriman said as he perched on the window ledge, silk sash in hand.

Roger nodded. I could see his teeth were already clenched in anticipation. In a second Mr. Harriman had vanished. Roger jerked forward from the weight of the other man but quickly braced himself against the wall, leaning back with both hands gripped tightly on the silk. Just as quickly the silk slackened and Roger let the remainder drop.

"Why did you do that?" I demanded.

"It would be just one more distraction. We can pick it up when we leave. Let us find that bomb."

We descended the stairs into the tavern. It was still far too quiet. The door had been unlocked when we entered, but where was the bartender? Where was the owner? Unless...

"The back room," I whispered, pointing to a door that stood ajar behind the bar. "That door was not open when we entered."

Roger nodded and held a finger to his lips. Silently he pulled his pistol fro the holster and held it up in front of him, I did the same. We silently moved to the door. Roger slid in first, pistol at the ready, a moment later he waved me in.

At first glance the room appeared empty but for a hollow ticking sound. My eyes followed where the sound was coming from. There, against a large gas pipe, was the bomb. It looked much as it had in Mr. Du Beauchene's sketches: six sticks of dynamite stacked in a pyramid shape and bound by two black leather belts, a silver alarm clock mounted on the long side counting down the seconds until its fiery end. I cautiously approached the object when something large arrested my progress. Looking down, just barely lit by the dim light of the sooty lamps, I saw the figure of a large man lying prone upon the floor, shattered glass surrounding his head like a glittering crown. I knelt down and felt for a pulse but found nothing. Roger gestured to me to stay where I was. Even from this distance I could see the silver sliver on the face of the clock, only five minutes before the minute hand struck it.

"Keep me covered," Roger said. He holstered his gun and began inspecting the wires.

"You really shouldn't do that. It's on a hair trigger," a voice from the door warned. In an instant Roger had his gun trained on the voice.

I turned to see the hawkish visage of Mr. Fuchs, a smile, a twisted grimace upon his face, his eyes bright with something akin to madness, a gun level with my head.

"Ah, I see now. Miss Kepler was it? Or is that just the story you told them? The other girl, is her name really Underwood, or is that a lie as well? That's probably not even her real brother, is it? They don't look anything alike. I thought there was something strange about the three of you. And this is your so-called Uncle then? They warned us to be careful, that unGodly people might attempt to infiltrate the group. It's funny, Menning is usually so meticulous about new members - but I suppose he only saw what he wished to see. And she is very pretty."

"Mr. Fuchs, it does not have to end this way. If you tell us how to disarm the bomb you can turn yourself in to the authorities. We can grant you immunity if you testify," I said, my voice shaking. I could hear the ticking of the clock behind me.

"Testify? Oh I will testify. Of your perfidity! They were truly worried for you, the fools! How dare you deceive those who have opened their doors and their hearts to you! We will find your friends, we will root out your true names and families, the penalty for your sin will be waged upon all your houses till your family names are blotted from the roles on earth as they will be in heaven! The Blood of the Lamb will rain down upon them!"

"You must know we will not let you leave," Roger said. His straight brow was dark, his stare cold, his arm unwavering.

"Let me leave? You speak as though you have a choice in the matter. I am content to die if it means eliminating you."

I glanced over at the bomb, two minutes left.

"Mina!" Roger's shout gave me to know my momentary distraction had been noted by Mr. Fuchs.

I did not even register the sound of the discharge as I dropped to my knee, umbrella spread in front of me as a shield. The bullet glanced off the thick silk. Three shots retorted in succession. There was a dull thud as Mr. Fuch's body hit the floor.

"Let's go!" Roger shouted, grabbing my arm and pulling me from the floor.

"The bomb!" I cried.

"It's too late for it now. Run!"

Roger yanked me, open umbrella in tow, across the floor and over the bodies of Mr. Fuchs and the barman. We had barely the front threshold when I heard the insistent ringing of the alarm. We had cleared another fifteen feet before I felt the blast lift me from the paving stones into the air. I felt a tightness binding my body and then the shock of the ground. It felt strange, the hardness of the stones muffled beneath me. I felt myself rolling. Then there was nothing but blackness.


	18. Chapter 18

I came to myself what must have been only moments later for I heard no voices, only a muffled ringing that grew louder by the second. I heard a scream from somewhere beyond my sight (which was, at the moment, very limited). The ringing in my ears grew louder, from somewhere I could here a muffled humming. At first it was droned out by the ringing but it grew louder, seemingly intent to break through the din. It formed into a pattern of long and short sounds that resembled syllables. A breeze blew in my ear, tickling it. I felt a heaviness upon my back. I attempted to move my arms but they were immobile as if some force held them bound. It was not a force, I realized, as my arms were pressed in even tighter. No, these were arms that clasped around me! The weight was a human form on top of my own! I struggled to free myself but this only had the effect of causing the arms wrapped around me to tighten. Twisting my head sharply I was able to see the scantest bit of my captors profile. Suddenly the syllables burst through the din into words, it was not a breeze at my ear but the breath from words being spoken into it!

"Mina! Mina!" the voice repeated with great insistence. "Are you hurt?"

"I'm awake if that is what you mean, James. Whether I am all right or not is an answer I cannot give until you release me."

"Right. Of course," Roger stammered, yet still he held fast.

"Now." I said crossly, for I did not wish to be seen in such a compromising position; or at all if it might be helped.

He abruptly released me, shifting to his knees to allow me space to get up. Now on my hands and knees I was able to begin to get my bearings. Standing twenty or so feet behind us was the ruined tavern, the remains of its carcass being devoured by the conflagration. Black smoke and snowy ash billowed into the air. I saw my umbrella, still open, lolling back and forth on the paving stones a few feet behind us. I didn't recall letting it go. Perhaps it had happened when I hit the ground. But I did not hit so very hard to cause such an expulsion. Or perhaps I had? The blow had felt soft for striking against stone. And then it occurred to me. The force of the landing had not been slight, only the blow had been mitigated by Roger's body. I looked to where he now stood, his back facing me, adjusting his cuff links. He took a moment to brush the front of his coat with his hands, though this was a futile endeavor for that item was completely ruined. The left shoulder of the coat was badly torn, abrasions streaked with filth covered the whole of the back. He turned to face me, I still kneeling on the cold stones.

"Can you stand?" he asked.

"Yes, I believe so." The impatient note in my voice had disappeared.

"Well, get up then," Roger said, extending a hand. Even though he had brushed it off I could still see reddening streaks where grime settled. My gaze followed his arm, the side browned by dirt, up his shoulder to his face, where a kindly smile met my eyes with no trace of the harshness his words suggested.

"Thank you," I said, gently placing my hand in his. He winced almost imperceptibly at the touch but instantly collected himself and guided me up beside him.

* * *

We returned home shortly after the clock tower chimed eight.

"Oh Mina! Roger! Thank the good Lord!" Dinah exclaimed, embracing us both the moment we came through the door. Roger winced in pain at her touch.

"Praise God you're safe!" Quentin said, embracing me. "We heard what sounded like an explosion and thought it might have been you."

"It was," Roger replied. "We were lucky."

The pair had not stopped to looked at us in their joy but now stepped back to see our state more clearly.

"Oh dear, Roger!" Dinah gasped. She gently touched the elbow where his coat was torn.

"It's not as bad as it looks." Roger grimaced. Which was quite bad. In the dark, with only the fire for light, I had not been able to properly assess our appearance, but I could now very clearly see the scorched blackness that clung to Roger and I, the dirt and injury done upon his clothes, the darkening of his badly scraped knuckles from bruises.

"And Mina, you are a fright!"

I was certain she was correct, but there was no time to attend to such matters. I went to the cabinet and pulled out the brandy. Pouring a small amount into a bowl I then added steaming water from the tea kettle and mixed the bowl's contents with a towel. Dinah had led Roger to the fireplace where she exhorted him have a seat, though he refused. I placed the bowl on the end table.

"Here, given me your hand," I said.

Roger did as was asked. I gently wiped away the grime from the scrapes, still glowing bright red over the unnatural rise of a jagged scar.

"Thank you, Miss Moore; but I believe you should get some rest. Quentin can attend to me tonight. Dinah, if you would assist Miss Moore."

"It is no trouble!" I protested.

"It is trouble for me if you are not well rested. Please."

I said nothing more but surrendered the towel to Quentin and stalked off to my room followed closely by Dinah.

"Goodnight, Miss Moore," Roger called from behind me.

I stopped, glancing back at the pair. Quentin was helping to remove Roger's battered jacket while Roger worked the buttons of his shirt. Where the shoulder had been torn I could see a growing bloom of scarlet upon his white shirt. I winced. He had only been pretending his injuries were not so severe. He sent me away so I would not see. How hard must have the hit been with not only his weight but my own? The shoulders of his shirt fell, revealing a gash indented within purple and rose flesh. Blood smeared the surface, unnatural, like paint on finished wood. Quentin dipped the towel in the bowl and set to work cleaning the wound.

I felt Dinah's hand clasp my own and pull me toward my room. I did not want to go. What strange perversion was it that exhorted me to stare upon his injuries, that repulsed me yet demanded I not look away? That commanded the visual confession of his deceptions? Why had he hidden it? Dinah pulled yet harder, finally persuading my movement from where I had been rooted.

"Goodnight, Roger," I whispered as I was pulled further away from him.

* * *

I awoke sometime late in the night uncertain what had roused me. Walking to the window, I peered out at the stars above long now in their courses. A dull murmur of voices wafted in through the door, muffled by the incessant ringing that still sounded in my ears. Dinah must have neglected to close it all the way after she had helped me out of my ruined dress and into my nightgown. I must have fallen asleep as soon as I hit the bed for I remembered nothing more than Dinah telling me I ought to wash my face. A stream of warm light trailed through the crack left by Dinah's neglect. I tiptoed over to the door, bare feet silent against the cold wooden floor. Peeking through the crack I saw Roger sitting, his elbows resting on his knees. Beside him Quentin sat, nursing a cup of tea.

"I was careless," Roger said. "I should have realized the crate would be rigged."

Quentin said nothing, he only nodded in such a manner that neither affirmed nor denied Roger's guilt.

"Will you be up much longer?"

"I can be awake as long as you require," Quentin answered.

"I need to go out for a while. I'll be back before morning. Would you keep watch while I am gone?"

"As you wish."

I watched Roger start as he got up from the chair, his face twisted as he sucked in a sharp intake of air. Quentin made a more to assist him but Roger held up a hand to stop him. Thus stymied, Quentin returned to his cup of tea, pulling his Bible from his coat pocket, he opened it and began to read. Roger disappeared from my view and down the hallway.

I desperately wished to follow him, but Quentin's presence made that impossible. I considered, for a moment, going out the window but shook my head. He did not want me to follow him. He wanted me to rest. Given what he had done for me today, perhaps I should respect his wishes, just this once, I thought as I eased my aching body into the bed, the cool of the blankets granting instant relief to my sore muscles. I tried to ponder what I had just heard, witnessed, but the thoughts were abstracted, weaving in and out of reality, remembered voices combining with new ones that inhabited that strange grey vale that existed between the waking and sleeping.

A sound, gentle and soft as the flutter of a bird seemed to brush against the door. Again it came. Strange and foreign. Opening my eyes I saw underneath the door a bar of cool light was broken by tiny shadows that moved back and forth. In that instant I recognized it was no longer night; the room was lit by the pale rays of the midmorning sun. The strange brushing sound came again. I cautiously tossed aside my covers and crept to the door. I had hoped not to be heard but the thing on the other side seemed to be aware of my movements for the thing give a piteious cry, "Meow!"

It was a cat! I opened the door just a few inches and a large, fluffy calico decorated with great splotches of brown tabby colored fur where black should have been slid inside and began to rub it's body in figure-eights around my legs.

"Well aren't you a sweetie!" I said, reaching down to run my fingers through the creature's long fur. Seeing my hand it hopped slightly, pushing its soft brow into my hand. "Where did you come form?"

"Merow!" it cried, looking up at me as though I might understand the answer. Suddenly, a memory of flashing green eyes jolted my brain. This was Mr. Fuchs' cat! Roger must have gone back to the house. I sat on the side of the bed; the cat immediately jumped up beside me and proceeded to nuzzle its way into my lap.

"Oh you poor dear. You're all alone in the world, aren't you? I'm sorry. But we'll take care of you."

I did my ablutions despite the constant interruptions of my furry companion who seemed to think the water bowl was filled for her benefit alone.

I walked out of my room in good spirits with the cat following closely at my heels to find Dinah and Quentin enjoying a cup of tea together.

"I see you have met our new house guest," Quentin said as I bent down to give him a kiss.

"Yes, she is quite a dear."

"Roger said she would help with the mice," Dinah said.

I raised a brow, "Is that what he said?"

Quentin, placed his teacup on the table and picked up the newspaper that sat beside him, "He brought back some papers, he wanted you to have a look at them. They're in the satchel on the table."

Indeed, there a leather satchel lay, it's contents of rolled parchment spilling out onto the table. Ignoring the tea Dinah poured for me, I shifted through the documents. They were the very same plans that had been on the desk in Fuchs's study, as well as a number of others I had not seen. I came upon the page upon which the name "Du Beauchene" was neatly printed with the fine hand of the aristocracy. I shuddered. Something about the cold, meticulous nature of the documents; the neatly written script of German intermingled with French, the very ease at which he had designed these instruments of calculated mass murder and then so casually wished the man "go with God" in his valediction, the drawings rendered in loving detail with every shadow and line inked with care - he was as fearsome to me as he was faceless in my mind. A slender man of shadows.

"Where is Roger, anyhow?" I asked, absently.

"He is still in bed," Quentin answered as he turned the page in the newspaper. "I wouldn't wake him; he came home late last night."

I imagined the man, body bruised and battered, finally sleeping in some odd position so as not to aggravate his injuries. My mind jumped from that image to one of him coming home sometime in the dwindling hours before dawn, exhaustion etched upon his face, deepening the lines and paling the cheeks. Over his shoulder the leather satchel was slung so that it hung beside his waist, beside the silver pistol. In his arm the cat. An affection for the spy welled within me. He would lie if asked, but I was certain he had sympathy for the orphaned pet and did not want it to go hungry alone in that empty house waiting for an owner who would never return.

How long before Mr. Fuchs absence was even noted? Would there even be anything of a body to find? And if there were, would the police recognize the remains of two people, or would they think it one? A pale melancholy settled over me with something akin to regret filling my very soul. Fuchs was not such an awful man that I could reconcile his death easily. If only he could have forgotten his bitterness, perhaps he might have been spared such a terrible fate. Yet what perversity was it that caused me to mourn the death of the man who would have shot me without a thought if not for Roger's warning and Quentin's brilliance?

Absently, I scratched the cat under its chin. "What do we have for breakfast?"

"Eggs and soldiers with bacon," Dinah said. "I will fix you a plate if you like."

I smiled, my memory taking me back to the little kitchen in Worthing where I watched Lt. Smith set about the morning's breakfast, which was, almost without fail, always eggs and soldiers. "That would be lovely, thank you."

Dinah presented me with a plate of food, "I do apologize; it's gone a bit cold."

"That is no matter, it looks delicious."

I slowly consumed the food while reading through the papers before me, taking no note of time as I went about my task until finally my fork was met with nothing but the plate itself. I looked up from my task, my eyes adjusting to the world around me. Dinah was seated in one of the larger wingbacked chairs with her legs curled up underneath her, reading a little blue book I guessed to be of German poetry that I could not remember her purchasing. I moved to get up with intention of taking the plate to the sink, but the motion caused my chair to creak loudly at the sudden shift of weight.

Quentin looked up from his paper. "Let me get that for you," he offered, folding the newspaper up. Dinah glanced up from her book.

"No, it's quite alright. I need to stand anyway." And, in truth I did, for I found my legs were terribly stiff. "How long have I been reading?"

Quentin checked his watch, "About an hour."

"An hour? I could have sworn I just sat down!"

"Were you able to glean anything from the papers?"

"Some. The bombs detailed are very complex, the instructions almost painfully precise, as though the author feels the person executing them is far beneath him in intelligence. It's almost belittling. And yet, I get the sense the author speaks German no better than I. Though perhaps he feels that, to, is beneath him. There is an arrogance about it, a style to the script that almost suggests Nobility."

"I didn't think France had any Nobles left," a rough voice said from behind us.

"Roger!" I cried. Roger tilted his head toward me, a slight turn played at the corner of his mouth at having elicited such a reaction from me.

"Good Morning, Roger," Quentin said. "How are you feeling?"

"Worse, if that is possible," Roger answered rolling his shoulder as if in an attempt to loosen the joint.

"It's no surprise, that was quite a bruise."

"Hmmm. Is there any breakfast left over?"

"Yes, let me fix you some." Dinah sprang from her seat; leaving the book, still open, on the cushion. She bustled about the stove, warming the bacon. She threw the toast on top of it once it began to crackle. "Would you prefer coffee or tea?"

"Coffee, I think, for this morning. What is this?" He picked up Quentin's newspaper and began to scan the front page. He turned it over then quickly opened it, his eyes moving back and forth at a speed so fast I almost could not believe he was reading it.

"Some French Policeman was arrested attempting to cross the German border a few days ago," Quentin said to me more than Roger. "He claimed to have been invited by a German constable but as of yet it seems no one has come forward to support the story. Thus the Germans are claiming he must be a spy, while the French are demanding he be returned. It's turned into something of a detente with neither side willing to budge. They are threatening war."

"Seems a silly thing to go to war over."

Roger threw down the paper onto the chair, "It's Schnaebele."

"Beg pardon?" I said.

"The French officer, it's Schnaebele."

"Do you know him?"

"In a manner, but at the moment that is not important. I must be off to Berlin immediately. Given my work with him in the past, Bismarck at least owes me an audience; perhaps I can convince him it would be in Germany's best interest to release the prisoner before things get out of hand."

"Do you think this could be the work of the Kingdom of Munster?"

"Possibly, even probably. But even if it were not I would still have to go," he said, grabbing his coat.

"But what are we to do about Menning while you are away?" I asked as Roger swept by me to the door.

"I don't know! Have him over for tea!" he exclaimed just as he slammed the door.

* * *

In Roger's absence, Quentin moved into his room. I took advantage of the time to make contact with Russell who gave the tragic news that the previous month there had been another mine explosion, this time at the Bulli Colliary with eighty-one numbered dead. The circumstances were strange but due to the severe nature of the explosion any evidence to speak one way or the other of the Kingdom of Munster's involvement had been destroyed. While at the Telegraph Office I overheard some of the older men discussing the Schnaebele incident in great detail, in fact, it seemed it was all anyone could talk about but the more accounts I heard, the stranger the story seemed to grow. Quentin was quite displeased at the damage I had done to his master work, as the bullet had left a dark singe mark and indentation on the silk where it had hit. I made the point that it had proved its abilities but this did not wholly cease his grumblings. Whether Roger had meant it in earnest or out of sheer irritation we decided to take his advice and, claiming that Uncle Johann had been called away on business, we invited Menning over to tea three evenings in a row.

Menning proved excellent company, often remaining late into the evening regaling us with grand tales of the great Germanic heroes or else of Biblical figures. Sometimes he, Quentin, and Dinah would fall into deep discussion of some obscure proverb or verse, delving for hours into books until they were either satisfied or forced to abandon the discussion for another time. For, by now, Menning seemed quite assured that, God willing our lives be so long, time would be something we would have in abundance. Still, when he managed to catch a moment with me alone, he expressed his concern about my Uncle. I attempted to assure him that Uncle Johann had made no untoward advances but the bruises on my forearms from where they had hit the paving stones told, to him, a different tale.

It was on the third evening, when Mr. Menning was fetching Dinah a fresh cup of tea that I noticed what I thought to be a small square of folded paper tucked between the base of the cup and the saucer.

"Oh, I forgot to ask, would you like any sugar for your tea?" Menning said, interrupting her before she took the first sip.

She smiled and returned the cup to the saucer, "Yes. Three spoonfuls, please."

Quentin and I stared as Menning took away the cup; the paper, I noticed, was absent.

* * *

That night I lay in my bed staring at the ceiling. Mr. Fuch's cat, which I had affectionately named Biddy for despite her orphaned status she remained as sweet tempered as one might wish, slept contentedly at my feet. It seemed so odd. I had tossed the idea around in my mind for days now and yet I still could not come to an answer that was satisfactory to my mind. Surely the simple cause of provoking an international incident that could lead to war between France and Germany was enough to move the Kingdom of Munster into action. But there was something in the account of the arrest that was strange to me. At first I had assumed it was as the newspaper stated, but three days of painstaking research on the matter revealed a much stranger tale. According to Mr. Schnaebele he had not intentionally crossed the border but was physically forced over by two men in blue blouses who, once he had crossed the line, had revealed themselves to be uniformed police officers who arrested him and took him to Metz. Nothing in this telling made any logical sense. I could understand the incidental arrest being made of a strange French man who had crossed the border for a meeting, but if his account were to be believed then it was these men who were lying in wait for him, and why would they be expecting him if the letter from the German constable were not a feint? And if it were such a thing what, then, was the purpose of it? What was so significant about Schnaebele that they would want him dead? Or perhaps... Perhaps it was not that they wanted him dead! Perhaps they only wanted him out of the way and were indifferent as to his fate beyond that goal. But then to what purpose?

If it were them at all! I rolled over, throwing my pillow over my head in a vain attempt to muffle the questions roiling inside my brain. And, of course, Roger had seen fit to leave us not even the scantest hint before he left! I flung the pillow across the room. Biddy gave a note of alarm, looking at me with irritation for having disturbed her slumber.

"I'm sorry, Biddy dear. Go back to sleep," I said as I walked over and scooped up the pillow. Suddenly, the glint of something in the yard caught my eye. Forgetting the abused pillow in my hands, I crept over to the window sill. It was a speck, scarcely visible to the human eye. I rubbed my eyes to make certain I was not just seeing the glint of the moon reflecting off of some metal object. No! There was clearly a light in the forest!

I heard, from the room beside me where Dinah slept, just the faintest click of the door knob being turned. The soft patter of slippered feet scurried across the floor of the main room and down the hall. Windpfife snuffed loudly.

"Shh shh. There's a good boy," Dinah's voice whispered.

In another moment I heard the click of the main door, felt more than heard the heavy percussive motion as it was opened and shut. Within seconds a figure, face ghostly pale in the moonlight, ran across the lawn toward the light the hem of her white nightgown trailing from her dark overcoat. Throwing open my window I leapt onto the soft grass below and followed after her. She was not especially accustomed to running and I was soon making efforts not to overtake her as she picked her way through the stand of trees. The way was now much brighter, in a small clearing by a fallen log I could clearly see Menning, lantern in hand, waiting expectantly. Hearing the sound of brush being disturbed he placed the lantern on the tree and moved toward the sound in time to catch Dinah in his arms in a mad embrace.

"Oh! How I missed you my schatzi!" he murmured as he clung tightly to her. "My dearest schatzi." He kissed her brow tenderly.

"It has only been a few hours!" she gently chided, her head still pressed against his shoulder, a smile of such serenity as I had never seen upon her rose lips.

"And yet I felt your absence keenly in them," he said, releasing her, but for her hand which he still held loosely. Picking up the lantern, he and Dinah began to walk along the tree line. I followed as closely as I dared behind.

They spoke not a word for some time until finally Menning broached the silence, "Have you enjoyed the book I gave you?"

"Oh yes, it is lovely."

"No, you are lovely." He ran his fingers gently across her pale cheek. Dinah cast her eyes downward, her cheeks seemed to darken in hue.

"Heinrich..."

Menning moved closer so that his lips were only inches from hers, "To hear my name from your lips fills my heart almost to bursting, please say it again."

"Heinrich," she repeated and all at once she was swept into his embrace.

"Does this mean you are ready to be baptized?" he asked.

Dinah demurred, her eyes once more cast to the forest floor, "I wish with all my heart I could say yes. But I cannot."

"For some it is easy to make that leap of faith, for others it is not. You may take all the time you require, only..."

"Only what?"

"I had hoped that I might have the honor before I left."

"You're leaving?" I had not expected Dinah's expression for she appeared at that moment as though she were about to cry.

"Yes, for a month after Sunday services. I was hoping..." he trailed off.

"What?" Dinah coaxed.

"I was hoping you might accompany me to Gerizim."

Dinah turned away from him sadly.

"It is a lot to ask, I know, but I am certain the Prophetess would allow it. If it is too much I will not ask again. Only I cannot bear the thought of a single day without the promise of you in it."

Finally Dinah spoke, "But what about my brother and Miss Kepler? What will become of them if I go? Surely Mr. Kepler will be upset by my leaving and he has taken our money and put it in his own bank account. He said it was for safe keeping but he refuses us access to it."

Menning turned as if thinking, "If it were believed that you had eloped, that would give him an excuse to force Mr. Underwood from his home and I dread what would become of Miss Kepler were she to be left alone with that man. Given the circumstances, perhaps the Prophetess might make an exception for them even though they are as yet unbaptized - but I would have to get her permission."

"Please, would you? I could never be happy with you knowing that those two who were most precious to me were suffering."

"I shall have to ride all night and day. But if that is the only obstacle to you joining me in Gerizim I shall gladly undertake it."

"Oh thank you, Heinrich! I don't know how I could have bourne the misery of a month without you! My dearest love! My Heinrich."

She flew to his arms, where he held her in a most arduous embrace. He kissed her brow, and then her cheeks, and finally his lips found hers.

I turned from the scene. Falling backwards against the tree I hid behind I slid to the ground below. How long had they been meeting in secret? She had sworn time and again her feelings were merely an act. When had they turned? For how long had she lied to us? Or had it always been a lie? From the first had she entertained feelings for Mr. Menning and simply been thankful for the excuse? I peeked from behind the tree just to be certain only to find them still in the same aspect. I wanted so dearly to believe she was still acting, but there could be no doubt watching the tenderness of the moment. She had lost herself in the role, the act had become reality, the words truth - she was in love with Menning. A pale sickness welled within me. I felt a dizzying fog cloud my mind. My hand rose to cradle my brow.

Yet still, there was some hope. The fog cleared some at this desperate cry from within the recesses of my mind. She had not agreed to be baptized. She had refused to go without Quentin and I - she had made her agreement to join Menning conditional upon our accompanying her. She had not been honest with us, but neither was she being honest with Menning. Whatever her personal feelings for Menning, she had not lost sight of the task at hand. Perhaps she believed he might yet be saved from the clutches of the prophetess. I pitied her, but no longer did I feel I could wholly trust her. I could not tell Quentin, of this I was certain. We had just been given a chance to infiltrate the main body of the cult, regardless of how it was obtained, and we needed to take advantage of it. If Quentin knew of Dinah's true feelings he would never allow it.

"I must be off if I am to make Gerizim by noon," Menning said, pulling away from Dinah.

"Do be careful."

"What will you tell your relations?"

"I will tell them that I came upon you on our morning walk and that you were concerned for our continued safety so you invited us to join you."

"Do you believe they will agree to it?"

"I am certain. They may not be willing to voice their concerns but I know they are as afraid of Mr. Kepler as I."

"Be ready to leave when I return. We should not delay in case Mr. Kepler should return early."

"We will wait as the Israelites waited in Egypt on the night of the Passover."

Menning kissed her once more, "I love you, my schatzi."

Dinah looked down a moment, a lilac blush colored her cheeks. Seeming to collect herself, she turned her eyes upward to meet his which had maintained the most ardent stare. "I love you too, Heinrich." Something in the words told me I was listening to that sacred moment that is their first utterance.

A branch broke under my hand, alerting the two lovers to the world they had forgotten. Their heads snapped in my direction.

"Go. I will see you soon," Menning said, bidding Dinah goodbye. She ran off, stepping as lightly as a deer through the woods. I saw the light of the lantern grow as Menning's footsteps approached where I sat. I pressed my back against the tree so firmly I felt the bark digging through the threads of my dress and pressing into my skin as I will the tree and I become one.

The light hesitated.

"Only a deer," Menning finally said and both the light and the footsteps grew more distant.


	19. Chapter 19

I did not sleep that night, instead spending the entirety staring at my ceiling, testing codes within my mind. It would have to be something simple enough to not require paper and pen to decipher, yet complex enough that its employ would not be obvious were it intercepted, believable in context as natural in the letters between a woman and her grandmother, and it would need to be something unlike any we had ever used before. I desperately wished to trust Dinah, but her personal feelings compromised her judgement. What if Menning were implicated during our investigation? Might she, either intentionally or unintentionally, warn him of the impending danger? It was a risk we simply could not afford to take. I thought of the letters I had once written my own grandmother Kepler years ago, when she still lived. She had been a quiet woman, but of a kind, indulgent demeanor (at least, in the eyes of a granddaughter). She had a particularly talent for drawing and all her letters to me featured beautiful sketches of flowers and butterflies. Where they had once decorated my windowsill, now they existed only in a yellowing stack in my closet. I had tried, in the poor imitation of a six year old, to replicate them on my letters to her. She always told me how she loved them, though Chet made fun. Flowers and leaves and butterflies swarmed in my tired brain, dancing to the soft, ancient voice of my grandmother singing " _Der Mond ist aufgegangen,_ _Die goldnen Sternlein prangen_ _Am Himmel hell und klar"_ I could see her rocking by the fireplace, her craggy hands busied with the mending, flowers and leaves and butterflies dancing through the scene as though carried on an invisible breeze. I came back to myself with a start.

"That is it!" I exclaimed so loudly I feared I might have woken Dinah in the next room. I listened, but nothing stirred. Carefully, so as not to make a sound, taking a pencil and paper from my bag I placed it on the end table and began to draw my vision. A border of leaves and flowers punctuated by the occasional butterfly. The design was simple, unmistakably feminine, it truly appeared as something a Grandmother and Granddaughter would send to each other. Within the border I wrote,

 _Attn: Mr. Bond_  
 _I have no doubt you shall find this letter once you have discovered us gone. There has been no foul play, we are safe, at least as safe as we might be considered under the circumstances. There has been a rather surprising development and we have been invited to join the Kingdom of Munster at their village. I believe I shall be able to convince them to allow me to write my grandmother but I have no doubt any letters sent will be closely examined for any information that might reveal their location. I have thus created a code that should go unnoticed by even the most clever of them. If you'll note the border of this letter you will see a string of single leaves, singles flowers, and the occasional butterfly. The leaves represent dashes, the flowers, dots, and the butterflies the space between words in Morse code. We'll use a shifted alphabet based on the first letter used in the note. Meaning if the first word is "Dear", then all letters will be shifted four places in translation, thus the name "Abel" would be coded as "Deho". This should make discovery quite unlikely as any attempt at interpretation would only result in nonsensical gibberish. I will write as soon as I am able._

The letter finished, I quickly folded it into thirds and crept into the main room and ever so quietly undid the false back of the fireplace, placing the note upon the ledge inside. The missive secure, I returned the false backing to its proper place, spreading a line of soot at the bottom so it would not appear disturbed. I did not wish for Quentin to suspect the chamber had been opened. I did not wish for him to see the final words, written in code: _Dinah cannot be trusted._

* * *

That morning Dinah did precisely as she had told Menning she would, claiming she had simply met Menning on her morning walk and that he had offered to take us to his home, a place he called Gerizim, and that he would come for us either that evening or the next. She claimed the move was out of concern for the growing abuses of my false Uncle. It amazed me how easily she could lie when she believe we had no reason to believe her words false. I dearly wished to expose her for her arrogance, but there were greater crimes that required our attention, and thus I kept silent on the matter, matching her lies with my own of pleasant surprise.

As the evening drew on into night we sat by the fire. Dinah fidgeted with her knitting - I guessed it was supposed to be a stocking of sorts but it seemed to go the wrong ways too often to be effective. I wanted to read but had long surrendered the book to my side, unable to concentrate. Only Quentin seemed unperturbed, placidly reading the paper, for the third time today. I noticed he had not turned the page in some time. Our trunks sat in a group behind our chairs as they had since this afternoon. A loud knock at the door startled us from our seats. Throwing open the door we found Menning, standing, his face etched with exhaustion, in his hands the reins to a large bay horse. I could see Dinah stifle a move toward him.

"Might I come in a moment and feed and water my horse? He's had quite a run."

"Of course," Quentin answered. "Can I make you some tea?"

"I don't think there will be time enough for that. Just a glass of water if you would. Are you ready to leave?" Menning asked as he led the horse, wet with foam, into one of the stalls.

"Yes, our luggage is packed."

"Good. Mr. Kaiser is on his way with a cart and a pair of horses we can borrow for the journey."

I stepped forward and made a slight curtsy, "Thank you, Mr. Menning, for all you have done for us."

"There is no need for thanks; it is what any person with the smallest portion of humanity left within them would do."

"But thank you all the same."

Menning smiled, giving a brief nod. The sound of hoofbeats and the clatter of a cart bouncing through the ruts came to our ears.

Menning turned and looked out the open door into the twilight sky, "Ah, there he is now. Hail, Mr. Kaiser!"

"Heinrich!" the man called, raising an arm in greeting from the seat of the boxy wooden cart pulled by a monster of a horse (it had to be at least seventeen hands high!). A minute later he had dismounted. "Are they ready to go?"

"Yes. Thank you for letting us borrow the cart."

"It is no trouble at all," Mr. Kaiser hopped down from the seat and ran a hand against the horse's barrel. "Just have it back before the harvest."

"I will, Jens."

Mr. Kaiser strode into the house, through the three of us at the door. "So what have we here? Only three trunks? We'll make quick work of that!" he said, hefting a trunk in each hand and swinging them onto his shoulders as easily as if they were empty. Menning grabbed the other trunk and brought it out to the cart where Mr. Kaiser stood in the back and helped him haul it up.

Mr. Kaiser smiled at us, "I've put a few blankets and some straw in the back, it gets cold traveling at night."

"Thank you," Quentin said, his tone of mild bewilderment. I had to admit I felt the same with how fast everything was moving.

"Here, let me help you up." He extended a hand toward me, I took it and felt my body instantly sprung into the cart. "You next miss."

"I thought I might ride up front for a bit."

"No, it had best be me," Quentin said. "You have never driven a cart before."

"As if there's any driving to it!" Mr. Kaiser laughed. "With Old Dan here all you have to do is point him in the direction you wish to go and he'll walk until the road runs out."

"Still, there won't be much to see until morning. You should get some sleep," Quentin argued. As if anyone could sleep in a rickety old horse cart!

"Don't worry, I shall be glad of Mr. Underhill's company. We have much to discuss," Menning attempted to assure Dinah who finally relented, taking Mr. Kaiser's hand and allowing him to fly her into the cart. "There's a horse for you in the first stall, though you might want to give him a rest first. His name is Jaeger."

With that Mr. Kaiser jumped out of the cart and handed the reins over to Menning, "Are you certain you aren't too tired to drive? You can stay at my house for the night and leave in the morning if you wish."

"I'll be fine, I'd rather put as many miles between us and this house as we can tonight."

"Go with God then."

"Thank you, Jens. May God bless you."

* * *

I had not anticipated falling asleep, but something in the rocking of the cart and the warmth of our nest of blankets and straw, and the gentle hum of the men's voices as they spoke soon had me lulled to sleep. I awoke some hours later, Dinah's head leaning against mine, to the early morning sun. My eyes beheld a world of wide plains, uncultivated, with the occasional stand of trees from which birds flitted to and fro.

"Dinah," I hissed, nudging my companion. "Dinah."

Dinah shook her head as though trying to clear the bleariness from her mind, "Oh! Mina? Did we fall asleep?"

"It would appear so."

"Ah, so you ladies are finally awake?" Menning joked.

"If not, this is a very strange dream."

"Well, it is good you are up, we are about to cross the border, and then it will only be a few miles to Gerizim."

"The border?"

"Into Holland."

"Holland?"

"Well, yes. Our kind aren't particularly welcome in Germany, but Holland is a bit more liberal."

"I've been meaning to ask," Dinah said. "Why do you call your home Gerizim? I know it is the mountain of blessings but given its later meaning would not the name be somewhat troublesome?"

"I had wondered the same thing," Quentin chimed in.

I could very honestly say I had not for one moment wondered about the name.

"You are correct, when God inspired the name it was in part a reference to the mountain of blessings, but, as the Prophetess foretold, the name was chosen to remind us not to be as the Samaritans, but to remember that though we are blessed in our village, this is not the place of the final kingdom; as Gerizim was not the site God chose for His temple, but Jerusalem. It is only a place of waiting until such time as God's kingdom is declared."

Menning yawned.

"Were you able to get any sleep last night?" Dinah asked, concerned.

"Some, Mr. Underhill drove for an hour or two."

"Only an hour," Quentin supplied.

"That's hardly anything at all!" she protested.

"But it is something; and I shall sleep better knowing you are all safe in Gerizim."

We drove on for another half hour before turning into a dense forest on what was less a road than a horse path the cart scarcely could fit through. Branches assaulted us on either side, forcing Dinah and I to hunker low in the middle of the cart.

We drove on for another half hour when suddenly the world opened up into blinding sunshine. I rolled onto my knees and, placing my hands on the edge beams of the cart I pulled myself up to my full kneeling height and looked out onto a lush green meadow. Menning goaded the horse to pick up speed until we were going at a fast trot, made all the faster by the beast's size.

Menning pointed, exclaiming, "There, you can just see the first fields!"

In the distance, a patchwork of golds, pale yellows, and bright greens blanketed the ground as a quilt. I could see men working out in the fields. As we passed a number of them waved at us. Herds of sheep and cattle regarded us with little interest as they went about their grazing. In the center of the fields I could see a large village, there were dozens upon dozens of houses.

"How many people live here?" I shouted so as to be heard over the wind.

"About a thousand if you count the children," Menning called back.

"A thousand! How long has it been here?"

"Twenty years, I believe. That was when the Prophetess first purchased the land."

"It's beautiful!" Dinah declared.

And that it was. The white plaster of the houses gleamed in the sun from under pale, thatched roofs. Each house had its own garden with flowers all abloom. People bustled about the dirt roads of the town. At the edge of the town opposite our entrance a large building, not dissimilar to a church in structure, stood watch over the people below. As we drove through the town I watched as we passed a washing well where women were busy with the laundry. Children sat under an awning where they appeared to be receiving instruction from a matronly, old woman. She was of a most pleasant appearance: plump, with pale gray hair braided and woven behind her head, and round, rosy cheeks. At our appearance, the children became instantly distracted from their studies, waving (some with both hands) and shouting questions out in their high pitched voices.

"Good morning, Mrs. Bauer!" Menning hailed the schoolmarm who seemed wise enough to not even attempt to wrangle her students into silence until such time as the cause of the disturbance disappeared.

"Good Morning, Heinrich! Are these my new house guests?"

"Yes! We are off to meet with the Prophetess."

"How wonderful! Well, welcome to you all!" Mrs. Bauer waved as we continued on, "I'll see you come supper. Don't be late! And mind you be careful of Max! He tends to get excited!" She shouted this last portion whilst we were driving away so I could only just make out what she said.

"Max?" I shouted to Menning, who just laughed in reply.

Finally, we reached the main square, which was in truth, more of a long rectangular lane leading to the church. Something struck me as odd about the scene. It took a moment before I could quite identify it: there were no shops surrounding the square. Not a one! In truth, I could not recall seeing even a single storefront since we had arrived! Menning stopped the cart. He and Quentin hopped off the seat and came to the back to slide the back beams out of place and positioned them so that they formed something of a ramp to the ground. He and Quentin guided us down as we looked about, all bewildered, at the sight of this strange town. Quentin kept my hand and followed behind Menning as he led with Dinah to the widely opened front doors of the church.

Menning released Dinah's hand and knelt to the ground on one knee as a knight before his queen. From within the building a woman stepped forth onto the landing and proceeded to make her way to us, her pale white dress, cinched only by a belt of pale purple fabric, was made of a thin, flowing cotton that floated and rustled around the ankles of her bare feet which were coated in the fine tan dust of the road as though they were unused to the confining concept of shoes. Her blond hair, the color of evening sand, hung in loose, naturally curling waves; in the sunlight I could see the glint of silver and colorless strands. Crowning her head was a circlet of pale pink cherry blossoms. Her face was tanned, with deep lines about her mouth and eyes that indicated a kindly nature but in the set of her lips I saw a hardness. Still, she was hardly old, certainly she was not much over forty.

Behind the woman followed two men. Watchful, serious, disciplined. Both were dressed in fine cotton shirts with expertly tailored dark indigo waistcoats and black trousers. The man to the woman's right was thin, his broad brow rose at the sides of his giving the careful side part of his chestnut hair a rounded appearance in the front. His head was rounder in shape than that of his companion, save but for the squared jaw. Despite the distance, his blue eyes shone brightly. The other man had dark hair, almost black in color. He was similarly thin to the man on the right, but his hair was parted in the center, much like Menning's, and his face longer so that the angle of his jaw appeared less extreme. They were not much older than I but so serious in their mein, so disciplined, they had the ageless quality of soldiers; and soldiers they appeared to be. The pair walked in concert with each other, right arm diagonally crossed over their chest, both with an uneven gait, the right stride ever so slightly shorter than the left, indicating a concealed firearm.

Behind them one other men followed, completing the party. He was tall, clad in white robes trimmed in gold which only served to emphasize his build which was barrel chested to the point of corpulence. His blond hair stuck up almost straight from his balding head. His face was broad and had a pale rosy hue that darkened at the cheeks and nose. He was grinning widely, in a good-natured, if somewhat stupid manner. In his ham hock shaped arms he carried a staff upon which the symbol of a globe was incised and topped with a cross, and in the other cradled a large, ornate white Bible, decorated in gold and precious stones. He reminded me of nothing so much as a butcher I had once seen while in London and given his appearance it would not have surprised me in the least if that is precisely what he had once been.

The party stopped right before Menning.

"Rise and stand at my right side," the woman commanded in a voice, though not imperious, that allowed no room for argument.

Menning did as he was told, facing us from beside the woman.

She smiled, extending her open palms toward us, "We welcome you to our Village of Gerizim. Heinrich has told me much about you. I was saddened to hear you have not yet been baptized but please do not feel that this makes you strangers among us. But God's timing is not our own. My name is Veena Ernst, I am the leader of this village. This," she swept her hand toward the broad man who had situated himself to her left, "is Jan Krechtinck, he serves as head priest. You must be Miss Kepler," she nodded toward me. I gave a brief curtsy. "And you Mr. and Miss Underhill. It is a pleasure to have you with us. We have arranged for you to stay with Gertrude and Bertram Bauer until proper quarters can be fashioned. I hope you will be very happy here."

"Thank you, Miss Ernst," Quentin said with a bow.

The woman flinched as though stung, "Veena, if you please. There is no need for such formality."

"Thank you, Veena. We are eternally grateful for your hospitality to us during this difficult time."

"Perhaps the Lord has used this time to lead you here," she said in an abstracted manner.

"Perhaps he has."

"We hope you will be able to attend supper with us this evening."

"I believe the Bauers have already invited us to dine with them."

Veena laughed at this, "My dears, we all eat supper together in the main pavilion."

"All of you?" I asked, for I could not fathom one thousand people eating supper in one place.

"Yes. It may seem a bit strange to you at first, but I am certain you will enjoy it. We always like to come together in the evenings to remember and celebrate how much God has blessed us in giving us this community."

"Miss Veena! Miss Veena!" a little girl's voice interrupted. A frail, tiny poppet of a girl ran to Veena who knelt to meet her.

"Hello Gretchen." She smiled warmly at the child. "What have you brought me today?"

"I brought you a flower from the garden for your crown." The child produced a large yellow lily from behind her back.

"Thank you, my dear one," she said, tucking the flower into the circlet. "There, isn't it lovely? And thank you so much for the crown you made me yesterday. I think it is even prettier today."

The child beamed.

"Did you bring anything for me, Gretchen?" Menning asked.

The little girl thought for a moment, Menning opened his arms and knelt slightly and the child understood. She leapt up into his arms, wrapping her spindly ones around his neck.

"Now there's a good girl!" he said, putting her back on the ground. "Now go run along. Miss Alma will be worried."

The child ran off merrily humming a spritely tune.

"You would never think she had known such heartache," Menning said in wonder, more to himself than to any other. I caught Dinah's eyes, as the same thought flashed between us: could this have been the girl who had lost her mother only a few short months ago?

"It is good God guided you to her when He did," Veena said.

"I am pleased to see she has put on some weight in my absence."

That she had put on weight? The child was skin and bones! How bad off had she been?

"Yes. She is a good girl. Now then," Veena turned her attention back to us. "I am sure you have many questions, and we will be glad to answer them, but for now, I believe it is best you get some rest, you have had a long journey."


	20. Chapter 20

It was only a short drive from the square to the Bauer's house; a cabin which sat on the edge of town near a small, wooded glen. Though it was made more awkward by a change in driver. Veena had insisted that Menning not trouble himself any further on our account today, but to return to his house to sleep, and ordered Krechtink to see to our arrangements in Menning's stead.

"This house was one of the first built in Gerizim. It originally housed two families so we often use as a waystation of sorts while we build a new house for our members. You'll find it quite pleasant everyone loves the Bauers. Though they say once you have lived with them for a week you will always know the time without aid of a watch," Krechtinck said.

"What an odd thing to say," Dinah remarked.

Krechtink let out a braying laugh.

We piled out of the cart. I was not particularly paying attention Quentin and our new companion unloaded our trunks when suddenly there was a flash of white and I felt a massive force slam into me, laying me flat on my back on the ground. Hot, moist air assaulted my nose, while something soft and wet ran itself over and over my face. I struggled to be free of the thing that held me pinned, my hands grasping thick fur.

"Max!" an old man's voice cried out. "Max! Get off of her!"  
A sudden as I had been pinned I felt myself freed. I wiped my eyes clear to find the most massive dog I had ever seen being restrained by his collar by an elderly man. The white giant whined as the man held him back.

"I do apologize, Miss. Max can get a little excited when he meets new people." He turned to the dog, "Max, behave!"

The dog whimpered with a look his master that reminded me more of a spoiled child who has been chided after being caught in the sugar jar than an animal. The old man released the beast which obediently sat by his master's heel.

"Well," I said, brushing myself off. "Am I to presume that this is the famous "Max"?"

"Infamous might be the better word for him. I've raised six children and none of them ever gave me half the trouble he has. Bertrand Bauer." The elderly man stuck out his hand.

"Miss Philomena Kepler," I tentatively placed my hand in his, which he rather roughly shook in a display of rather strange manners. "And this is my fiance, Rev. Quentin Underhill, and his sister, Miss Dinah Underhill."

"How could a lady so pretty be only a Miss? Well, I'm certain we'll have that fixed before long."

I was not certain if he meant such a remark to be friendly but it was unquestionably rude.

Quentin must have read my desire to respond in kind with less unclear motives for he quickly said, "It is a pleasure to meet you. Perhaps you might show us to our rooms. I don't mean to be abrupt, but we have had quite a long journey and are exhausted from the trip."

"Certainly!" Mr. Bauer replied. "If you'll just follow me. Come on Max."

The summer snowdrift came to life and followed his master into the cabin with us close behind, Quentin carrying his trunk, and Mr. Krechtink carrying both Dinah and my own.

The sound of ticking filled my ears upon entering the main room, I gazed about the walls in wonder as the faces of dozens of the finest clocks I had ever seen stared back.

"Where did you get all of these?" I asked, marveling at a little wooden bird that pecked away the seconds.

"I made them."

"All of them?" Quentin asked.

"Well all except for that one," Mr. Bauer pointed at a large cuckoo clock that hung above the doorframe that led to the kitchen. "That was passed down from my grandfather."

"They are fantastic!"

Mr. Bauer beamed with pride, "You're too kind. It was always a hobby of mine: watches, clocks, anything with gears so when I retired and moved here I figured I might as well take it up again. Well here I am jawing away when you all are probably fighting not to fall asleep where you stand. Follow me, follow me." He waved us on down a short hallway. "The Missus and I live in this room, Mr. Underhill, you can take that room." Mr. Bauer pointed to a room with a large single bed covered by a bright quilt. "And you ladies can have this room." He guided us down the hall into a small room with two pallet-type beds, one on either side. "I'm sorry for the cramped quarters, but it will only be for a short while. There is a washroom just across from Mr. Underhill's room and an outhouse out back."

An outhouse. How quaint. I thought with disgust.

Mr. Krechtink laid down our trunks beside the beds, almost filling the narrow walkway, "I suppose you will be wanting to get some rest, so I'll leave you to it." And with that he trundled back to the main room, and out, judging by the sound of the door against the frame.

Mr. Bauer spoke, "I'll have some lunch ready at a quarter after twelve, if you would like any."

"Thank you for all of your hospitality," I said.

"It is our pleasure. Now then, I'll let you get some rest. If you need me, I'll be in my shop."

"Thank you again," Quentin said.

Mr. Bauer nodded and doddered off toward the front of the house while we set to make ourselves at home.

"Mr. Krechtink?" I whispered to Dinah. "Do you think it might be...?

"I think it is very possible. But we won't get any further answers until supper. Let us rest as they said, so that our minds will be sharper come evening."

* * *

I did attempt to rest, and in theory, I made some success of it for I could swear I did fall asleep, but by eleven I was wide awake. I could hear Dinah's soft breathing from the other side of the room. I wondered how much sleep she had gotten on the ride over. It could not have been much for her to still be asleep. As I left the washroom I could hear Quentin's snores through his door, left open a crack. I peeked in, he lay splayed over the quilt like an exhausted child who had not even had thought to remove his boots before collapsing into sleep. The poor man, he had pushed himself too hard and yet had pretended for our benefit that he was fine until the very last. I crept down the hallway, past the little workshop where Mr. Bauer was peering through a jewelers glass at the miniature gears of a silver pocket watch. I doubted he would have heard me even had I called out to him, so rapt in his work was he. But I had no desire to make my presence known. Instead, I opened the door and ventured out into the warm sunshine.

I was enjoying a walk along the edge of town when suddenly I heard the sound of gunshots. Instinctively, I fell to my knee and surveyed my surroundings for danger, but all I heard were more shots and then what sounded to be laughter coming from nearby a stand of trees. Picking myself up, I decided to investigate. Closing the distance I saw two men engaged in target practice between an ancient line of fence and the copse. They were the very same men who had stood behind Veena when we had been introduced. The chestnut haired one stood, his waistcoat unbuttoned and hanging loosely, aiming a pistol into the trees. He fired off a volley of shots, plumes of grey smoke rising from the barrel of the gun. As thin as he was, he cut a rather impressive figure in that open stance. The black haired man laughed, patted his comrade on the back, and proceeded to take his place imitating the other precisely while the first man reloaded. Then it was the first man's turn again. Now that I was closer I could see him more clearly. His face was tanner than it had appeared in the early morning dawn, a shadow of unshaven beard covered his jaw and upper lip. There was a thin line of sweat that moistened the tips of his hair, pulling it from its neat assignment into a more jagged line upon his brow. This time he did not face whatever the target was but turned his back to it. Then in a single fluid motion he spun around firing six shots in succession. I heard the sharp clink of metal on metal six times telling me that he must have hit his target.

The other man laughed, "Georg, I believe you have an admirer."

"What is this?" The man called Georg turned his large, protuberant blue eyes in my direction as though stunned to see his shots had not gone unobserved.

Oh dear! I hadn't realized I had gotten so close! But here I was, standing just on the other side of the fence, only a few yards from where dark-haired man leaned against it.

"I-I'm sorry," I stammered. "I didn't mean to interrupt. I will be on my way."

"No, you don't have to leave!" the dark haired one objected, hopping the fence to my side. "Stay. We so rarely have an audience."

"If you insist," I said, nervously, allowing the man to lead me by the hand to the other side.

"Absolutely. My name is Gregory, this is my brother, Georg." He led me over to the chestnut haired man.

"It is a pleasure to meet you." I managed with a shaky curtsy.

"The pleasure is mine, fraulein." Georg gave a stiff bow that appeared far too formal for the circumstance. I guessed he was still a bit embarrassed having been watched without his knowledge.

"That was an amazing shot," I said, trying to break the tension.

"We'll see how amazing it was in just a moment. Wait here," Gregory directed as he jogged off into the copse returning a minute later with his hands full. He spread them out before us so we could both see. In his hand were six pfennigs, each of the tiny coins (scarcely the size of the tip of my littlest finger) with an indentation right where the eagle's head would have been. "There you are, six shots right in the eagle's eye!"

"Tch, still not half so good as Franz," Georg snorted.

"Franz?"

"Our older brother, Franz. He could shoot the wings off a fly," Gregory rhapsodized.

"And then hit it while it fell," Georg finished.

"Where is he?" It was as if my question cast a pall on the group for both men looked down at the same moment, an uncomfortable chill emanating from them.

"He died," Georg finally volunteered, still not meeting my gaze. "Last year."

"Oh! I'm sorry! I didn't mean to remind you of something painful."

"It is not your fault, you could not have known," Gregory said. "You are new to these parts, you can't be expected to tiptoe around every old wound, Miss... I'm sorry, what was your name again?"

"Kepler." Georg and I both answered in unison.

Gregory laughed. "I suppose I should pay closer attention like my brother."

"Probably why I am a better shot than you." A teasing glint shone in Georg's eye as he needled his brother.

"That is probably true. But I suppose proper introductions are in order," Gregory said, taking my hand in a somewhat exaggerated chivilric gesture. "I'm Gregory Mueller, and this is my twin brother,"

"Georg Mueller," the other man finished.

"We're the Mueller brothers. At least, that is what everyone calls us, but I assure you we do have proper Christian names."

I froze. Georg and Gregory Mueller, Franz Mueller's missing twin brothers from Berlin! Suddenly it were as though I could see the events in that black Russian mine unfold before my very eyes. It had been Franz all along. When Paul had screamed Franz's name in what was his approximation of Lt. Commander Hoople's voice in its endless repetition of his memory it was not out of desperation to save the man, but to stop him. An icy chill ran through the whole of me. I felt I was going to be sick.

"Are you feeling unwell?" Georg asked.

"Oh no," I plastered a smile upon my face. "It was just a bee flew by my ear and the buzzing stole my attention. I am Miss Philomena Helen Kepler."

"That's rather a mouthful," Gregory teased.

"But it is nice," Georg spoke with such sincerity I could feel the color rising on the back of my neck.

"Would you like to watch us some more, Miss Philomena Helen Kepler? We're just trying to match trick shots right now - not that I can match that shot." Gregory glared at his brother who returned a half smile.

"You will never be able to if you do not practice. But if you wish, you can begin this round."

Gregory strolled over to the starting mark with his back facing to it as he spun the barrel of his pistol, "If you insist."

Gregory didn't even turn from where he stood, but turned his arm over his shoulder and proceeded to fire the gun upside down, behind his back. The ring of metal told me the shot had been true.

"This is what you give me to start with?" Georg said haughtily as he sauntered to the mark and, without even a moment's pause, turned and imitated the maneuver precisely, the retort of the gun and the sound of the metal strike almost simultaneous, and returned to us.

That he could so easily perform such an impossible shot as though it were nothing more challenging than a mere walk in the park filled me with terror. For as amiable as these men were at this moment, I could not forget they were the very men Roger and I might have to face on less friendly terms. As they proceeded to perform still more complicated shots my horror grew.

Suddenly a shot that was not met with a ringing response pulled me from my concentration.

"What was that?" Georg laughed, slapping his brother on the back.

"Still a bit rusty from France."

"A likely excuse."

"Perhaps I was distracted. Miss Kepler, how would you like a turn?" Gregory offered the weapon to me.

"Oh no! I'm afraid I've never even touched a gun!" I lied, for the very first shot I took, when I was but a girl of eighteen, still haunted my dreams. I could feel jerk of the little derringer, see the line of red that marked where the bullet had grazed Nicholas's cheekbone. Hear him laugh dangerously, the sound now demented in my memory.

"Well, it's not too difficult. I can show you, if you like. Or perhaps Georg might be better suited to the task."

Georg looked visibly uncomfortable at this proposal but did not object.

"I suppose I could try it, just once."

"That's the spirit! Georg!" He waved his brother over.

"You'll want to get into stance. No, arms slightly bent. Like this," he repositioned my arms. "Now, bend your knees a little, you'll want them loose." I could feel Georg's body behind me as he fussed with my stance, at once gentle while at the same time reminding me very much of my Governess who was always on about my posture. "There, now, don't stick your thumb up, unless you wish to have it broken."

I folded my thumb to the side and stared at the copse, at the center of which was a large wooden square marked with hundreds of bullet scars. It was probably at least as tall as I was and decorated with all manner of shiny coin and target.

Georg stood behind me, holding both arms in position, "Now aim and shoot."

I pulled the trigger and felt the power of the retort push me backward. There was no ring to mark my shot, not even a dull thunk of wood, only a few leaves falling from one of the trees. I gave a disappointed pout.

"Don't worry, that is why we practice," Gregory said. "If it is any consolation for you, my first shot was twenty feet off, so you are already off to a better start than I was."

"Why don't you give it another try?" Georg said, repositioning himself slightly.

"Alright." I raised my arms back into position.

"A bit lower and to the left this time." Georg's breath tickled my ear as he moved my arms accordingly.

"Pardon me!" a rather annoyed voice interrupted. "But might I ask what you are doing with my fiance?"

Georg dropped my arms and had made some distance between myself and him in an instant.

"Imagine my surprise when I woke up and came to find you were not at lunch, that no one had seen you in hours." Quentin continued in what I knew to be mock agitation for the benefit of the men who would certainly be more suspicious were he not upset giving the circumstances. "I set out to find you and here you are, with two strange men."

"It is nothing, dear, they were just teaching me how to shoot as a lark."

"They?" Quentin arched a brow as he placed his arm about my waist.

"Yes, this is Mr. Georg Mueller," I gestured to the man who now seemed very interested in a spot on the ground. "And this is his brother, Gregory."

Quentin turned, it seemed, noticing the dark haired brother's presence for the first time.

For a moment the two men regarded each other before Gregory finally managed to speak, "You are one of the newcomers, Mr. Underhill, correct?" There was a quaver in the man's voice I had not noticed before, his face was somewhat paler, making the freckles that spanned his cheeks across the bridge of his nose all the more prominent. Perhaps Quentin had startled him; though these did not seem the type of men who would react so to being startled.

Quentin allowed a small smile, the type I was accustomed to seeing when he was not aware he was doing it, such as when he was tinkering with a new machine. "Quentin." He extended his hand but Gregory delayed a moment in its taking.

"Oh, yes." Gregory finally recognized the gesture. He gripped Quentin's hand tightly, "It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Quentin."

"Do you shoot, Mr. Underhill?" Georg asked.

"Not if I can help it."

"That is a pity," Gregory said. I almost laughed as I noticed he and Quentin were still shaking hands. They seemed to notice it to, at that instant, for they both quickly let go.

"Well then, we should be going. Dinah is worried sick," Quentin took my arm and began gently pulling me away.

"Thank you for the lesson," I called out. Both men raised a hand in goodbye. Before we had even walked a hundred yards I could hear the shooting begin once more.

When we had made some distance from the men I stopped Quentin.

"Quentin!" I whispered urgently, even though there were none about on the sunny hill to hear. "Those were Franz Mueller's lost twin brothers! The ones James couldn't find!"

"Who?" Quentin appeared quite baffled by this information.

I had forgotten Quentin was not so well acquainted with Roger's time in Russia and the spy's subsequent movements.

"You recall, Franz Mueller was one of the men Paul Brady spoke of who was in the camp with him."

Quentin pondered this for a moment before his eyes grew wide, "Then it would follow that it was Franz who blew up the mine!"

"Exactly! They said he was the best shot they had."

"Then why waste him at a mining camp?"

"I wonder if they intended to." I placed my hand on my chin, the other supporting the opposite elbow as I paced in a circle about Quentin. "James did say they were kidnapping foreigners from hotel rooms to fill the camp. Perhaps it was simply a bit of ill luck that found him there. And then, when confronted with James's suicidal escape plan- "

"He opted to make do with the present situation rather than risk simply being killed in the woods."

"That would be the most sensible conclusion."

"Then I suppose it would be to our benefit to cultivate a friendship with the Mueller brothers."

"You will have to be more careful, dear. I fear you may have gone too far and now they believe you to be disagreeable."

"Well, I could not very well simply ignore the sight of another man wrapped around my future wife."

"He was not 'wrapped around' me!" I protested.

"Perhaps you should have seen it from where I stood," Quentin raised his brows in a piquing manner. "I can't have you getting a reputation."

"You are terrible!"

"And you are lovely." He kissed me on the head, then rubbed his hand against the top of my hair, tousling it.

"Very well, you are forgiven. How did you find me, anyhow?"

He smiled, "I simply followed the sound of gunfire."

* * *

As I had missed lunch by quite a few hours by the time we returned to the house I was doubly ready for supper. In an attempt to distract my mind from my growling stomach I searched the house for something to read but not only found none, I could not find so much as a shelf to keep such a thing. I now greatly regretted forgetting to pack the book of German Fairy tales.

"Is there something I might help you with, Miss Kepler?" Mr. Bauer asked as I once more searched the main room, still unwilling to accept what experience told me to be true, while Quentin watched contentedly sipping a cup of tea.

"I was looking for something to read."

"Well, you won't find anything like that here. All books that anyone brings are kept in the Library."

"You have a lending library?"

"Not exactly. Books must be kept in the Library, but you are free to go and read them any time you wish during the day."

"I don't understand, why must they be kept in the Library?"

"To allow everybody equal access to them."

"But what about their owners?"

At this Mr. Bauer chuckled, "We believe in the communal ownership of things, that way we all have what we need while never being tempted by the idol of possessions. When a pilgrim comes into our village they are given a pot, a pan, cooking utensils, enough dishes and utensils so that every member of the family has a set, a bed, four sets of clothing, and a clock for their home. Though, I daresay, I have given them a wide selection to chose from."

"You don't have anything of your own?"

"Well, the clothes you brought you can keep until they wear out, but most folks prefer to donate them so that they can be turned into bedding. And you are allowed a few personal affects - trinkets and the like - my wife has an old locket with a lock of hair from each of our children and I have my clock. Otherwise, it's only the tools you need to pursue your trade."

"Your trade? Are we to be assigned a trade?"

"No, nothing like that. Hard work is a virtue but we believe virtue is a a choice every person must make for themselves. So if you decide you do not wish to work, you do not have to, we won't force you to; but you'll find it gets quite boring if you don't find some way to occupy your time. A lot of women take up spinning and weaving because it makes it easier to watch after the babies. I know Mrs. Gudac would be more than happy to teach you."

I didn't much care for the implication in that. "So where is the Library?"

"It's at the far end of the square, directly opposite the church."

"I'll come with you," Quentin said, putting down his tea and grabbing his coat. "I wouldn't mind a little reading before supper, myself."

* * *

The Library was about as wide as two houses and almost twice as tall. The walls were pure white and the floors gleaming oak. The main floor held tables and chairs at which a handful of people were diligently studying. The shelves were situated at the back of a low stage separated from the main floor by a shining golden rail which had only one gap where a tall, narrow, white desk stood with a man of build and complexion not unlike the desk perched on a stool before it watching the readers from above, reminding me alternately of a hawk and a rather disagreeable school teacher.

"Might I help you?" the Librarian asked the question as though it were an accusation of a grave crime.

"Yes, we were wondering if we might have a look at your books," I said.

"Names."

"Miss Philomena Kepler and Mr. Quentin Underhill."

"When you find a book you wish to read come to the desk and I will make a note of it, then you may take it to the main floor. When you are finished bring the book back to the desk. Do not remove the book from the Library."

"Yes, sir."

Quentin and I did as directed, I taking a nice little piece of French poetry (finally, a language I was comfortable with!) and Quentin a book of historical maps. We showed our bounty to the watchman. We read in silence for the better part of half an hour before Quentin lay his book flat on the table. He leaned over it and pulled the top of my book down so I could see him.

"Finding anything of interest?"

"Not especially, I believe this to be more to your liking then my own."

"What is it?"

"It is a treatise by a Monsieur Charles-Claude Genest called 'Principes de philosophie, ou Preuves naturelles de l'existence de Dieu et de l'immortalité de l'âme'."

"You'll have to forgive me, my French is not so good as yours."

"Natural proofs of the existence of God, basically."

Quentin leaned back into his chair though I noticed his elbow did not move from the point on the map where it sat. It was then I recognized the book was open to a queersome map of medieval Holland with drawing of a lion superimposed upon it. Quentin's elbow rested in a patch of forest near the lower part of the lion's maw, just beyond the border where the German States now I understood why Quentin had stayed awake for the whole ride from Munster.

"How very queer!" I declared. "This map looks just like a lion! Might I see?"

A sharp rap from the dais brought my attention to the man who scowled at us from his perch. I gave an embarrassed grimace and quieted down, taking the book of maps from Quentin and laying aside my own. I knew I would only have a few moments before the watcher became suspicious. Noting where Quentin's arm had been, I followed the road from where I knew Munster to be across the border and to the location. It seemed there was only one main road that led between the two. It would be easy enough to convey to Roger. I flipped through a few more pages for good measure and returned the book with a nod to my partner.

"There are no other maps drawn as animals," I said with mock disappointment. "How dull."

I returned to my own book, realizing I had forgotten to mark the page. I opened the cover in hopes that there might be a table of contents of sorts and found, written in familiar, neat swooping letters on the first page the name: Henri Jean-Martin Luc Alfonse d'Eon du Beauchene. Instinctively I cried out, dropping the book as though it had transformed into a snake in my hands. The man at the dais glared at me.

"Sorry, it was a silverfish." I picked up the book and once more began to read, though now with greater interest.

* * *

Dinah, Quentin, and I followed Mr. Bauer to the place where supper was to be at a quarter of five. It was less a building than a giant pavilion with a multitude of vacant fireplaces standing guard among the benches and long tables arranged in great rows. Attached to the edge of the roof were thick canvas sashes rolled up and tied in place. At the far end of the pavilion was a sizable building from which the scents of potatoes and wild game poured forth. People had already begun to seat themselves in small groups among the tables.

"Bertrand!" a woman's voice called. The elderly woman I recognized as Gertrude waved to her husband from a line of children who looked to be around the same age as Avery. She spoke a few words to her cohort, a tall, thin woman with a long face and mousey hair tinted with grey, and threaded her way through the growing crowd to meet us.

"Gertrude!" Mr. Bauer favored his wife with a kiss.

"How are our guests getting along?"

"Very well, thank you," Quentin answered.

"Did you get enough sleep?" the old woman asked, fussing with Quentin's coat.

"Any more and I doubt I would be able to sleep tonight."

"He was out the moment he hit the bed until lunch," Mr. Bauer laughed.

"Poor boy! And what about you, dearies?"

"Oh, I slept on the ride here so I was not especially tired. I went for a walk instead."

I noticed Dinah searching the crowd, but there was no sign of the man she sought. Fortunately, Mrs. Bauer was too distracted by the new topic to realize she had not answered.

"Did you enjoy your walk?"

"Yes, it was quite pleasant."

"Where did you go?"

"Only to the copse near the barley fields."

"That far!"

"It did not seem a particularly long distance."

"Not for young legs, I suppose!" Mr. Bauer interjected.

His wife smiled, nodding in agreement. "Well let's find a seat before it gets too crowded."

For a party of our size we required almost an entire table. We situated ourselves at the end of one of the long table rows.

"They will dismiss us by row to get our food, then we will wait to eat until the blessing is given. All you will have to do is follow the person in front of you and do as they do," Mrs. Bauer said.

I noticed that a full third of the tables were taken up by children who were being watched over by women of at least advanced middle age if not older.

"Do the children not eat with their parents?" I asked.

"Good gracious no," Mrs. Bauer said.

"Why not?" Dinah asked, finally rejoining our party in mind where her body had only occupied a position a moment ago.

"Because the children aren't raised by their parents." Mrs. Bauer spoke these shocking words as though they were the most natural things in the world.

"What can you possibly mean?"

"Children are given over to the Prophetess after they are fully weaned. She listens to the whisperings of the Spirit of God and uses that to assign them a name and a group where they will be raised and taught by experienced care givers. This ensures that all children receive the care they need and none are subject to the cruelties of neglect and favoritism. Because of this our young women are healthier since they do not have to expend their own resources to care for the children."

"Mothers do not name their babies?"

"No. They have little names for them of course, but only God can assign them their true name. What woman would want to give their child a paltry common name in place of God's own choice?"

"But don't the parents miss their children?"

"Why would they? Their children are right here. Every child is their child. This way every member of the community works for the benefit of our society and not just for their own."

The children sounded more like the hostages of a King, but I checked myself before I said anything. Dinah and Quentin looked equally concerned.

"Do you mind if we join you?" I looked up to see Gregory Mueller's amiable face, his brother half hidden behind.

"Georg! Gregory! Of course you may! To what do we owe the honor?" Mrs. Bauer's face glowed with delight at this proposition. The two men slid in on opposite sides of the table, Georg next to Quentin and Gregory just across.

"We met Miss Kepler and Mr. Underhill early this afternoon, but I fear we may have given some offense."

Quentin smiled warmly, "No, not at all. It was just a simple misunderstanding. I am sorry if I overreacted."

"No, you were in the right, we should have thought more about how we might be perceived."

"Well, it is over and done with now. I harbor no ill feelings on the matter, if you don't."

"Of course not!"

"Then let us be friends."

"Agreed."

The Bauers and Dinah all appeared completely mystified by this conversation but were satisfied by its conclusion.

"Good evening, Gregory." I turned to see a petite young woman brunette in both complexion and hair and quite pretty standing just to Gregory Mueller's side.

"Good evening, Rachael." He greeting was genial enough but a noted a hint of exasperation in his voice.

"Are these the new arrivals?" she asked with no pretense, examining us with a cat-like gleam of hunger that brought to mind the young women of Greenmoor Commons who had merrily sought to destroy each other with gossip in order to raise their own prospects in the world. Always so pleasant, always smiling, always your dearest friend, even as they cut the legs out from under you.

"Yes. This is Mr. Quentin Underhill, his sister, Miss Dinah Underhill, and his fiance, Miss Philomena Kepler. This is Miss Rachael Dresner."

"It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance," Dinah said.

"Dresner, isn't that a Jewish surname?" I asked.

"It is." She tossed her head indignantly.

"And your accent is Austrian, is it not?"

"Yes." Miss Dresner seemed quite perturbed at this line of questioning for it was not her doing the asking. "How would you know that?"

"My Uncle is Austrian. Where do you hail from?"

"Vienna."

"Well it is very nice to meet you, Miss Rachael Dresner from Vienna. Where are you sitting?"

"I haven't chosen a seat yet."

"Well, you had better soon, it appears to be getting quite full."

She glared at me but seemed to understand my implication for she stalked off.

Gregory and Georg marveled at me.

"If I had known it was that simple to stifle her tongue I would have done it months ago," Gregory laughed.

"Well, it is a particular skill a lady must learn if she wishes to survive in society."

"Wait, are you a Lady?" Georg stared as though stunned.

I simply smiled and refused to answer any further inquires on the matter. Which was just as well for it was our row's turn to fetch our suppers. We now sat, waiting expectantly for the blessing and chatting pleasantly amongst ourselves.

Near the main building a strange man, moving like a shade caught my eye. He was thin, swarthy, with cropped black hair and dark features accenting a large, if straight, nose. His face, which began rectangular at the brow, seemed to decide to change forms at the cheek bones, coming to a triangular point that made his mouth appear slightly over wide. His ears were equally oversized, sticking out somewhat from his head. Two deep furrows stood between his brows. His dark eyes seemed to be regarding the crowd with a haughty disdain.

"Who is that?" I asked, interrupting the conversation.

"Who?" Mrs. Bauer asked.

"That man over there by the door." I pointed in hopes that would somehow clarify the thing.

"Oh." Mrs. Bauer had apparently sighted the figure I was referring to, her smile failing in the face of undisguised dislike. "That is Mr. Henri Du Beauchene. I would not try to make a friend of him."

"Why not?"

"He doesn't care for company," Mr. Bauer attempted diplomatically though it was clear from the faces of our group that none were particularly fond of the man.

"He is a bit of a difficult man," Mrs. Bauer said. "He's very… French."

I did not require further explanation for no Englishman ever does when such an image is invoked.

"What is that you are drawing?" Gregory asked Quentin from across the table where Quentin, always glad to capitalize on a spare moment and a flat surface, was busily sketching away at a new invention.

"Oh this?" Quentin turned the paper so that Gregory could see it properly. "I noticed the mill employed a large waterwheel and I thought this might be a more efficient design the would allow the mill to remain in operation-"

"Welcome my pilgrims!" Veena's loud voice declared from the end of the pavilion.

"We'll finish this later," Gregory whispered. Quentin nodded, folding the paper and stuffing it into his coat.

"I would particularly like to welcome Mr. Du Beauchene," she gestured to the swarthy man, "and the Mueller brothers," Gregory and Georg half stood from their seats, giving a slight wave, "back from their missionary journey to France. Through their tireless efforts, God's work in France has been greatly furthered." Veena stopped for applause from the crowd. "Now if you would. Let us bow our heads to receive God's blessing."

As we finished our meals and fell into conversation, I saw Veena sitting near the opposite end of a nearby row, playing with a small child who sat complacently in her lap. Not certain when I'd get another such opportunity to discuss my situation regarding my grandmother with her, I excused myself and approached her.

"Miss Er- Miss Veena?"

"Yes, my child?" she said, not looking up from her activity.

"I was wondering if I might have a moment of your time."

"Of course. Esther," she called one of the nursemaids over who took the child. "I assume you wish to discuss your Grandmother?"

"Yes! How did you know?" I was astonished, or I would have been so had I still had a grandmother, but as it was my astonishment was rooted more sincerely in the appreciation of how quickly she had used her knowledge of my situation to infer what I might wish to discuss.

She looked to the sky, "The Lord has His ways."

"She is so very ill. I was wondering if you might allow me to write to her."

"Of course, my lamb, of course I will. But are you not worried about your Uncle intercepting the letters?"

"I will send them to the post office under a different name to my Grandmother's maid. My Uncle has never been especially considerate of servants, I don't think he will even think of it."

"If that is your request I am happy to grant it. We can have one of our agents deliver the letter next week if you like. Only be careful you do not say anything to give away our whereabouts. I would hate to think your Uncle might come here and do you and your loved ones harm."

"I won't, I promise-"

"Veena, I need to speak with you." I looked up to see Du Beauchene glaring at me impatiently under heavy brows.

"Don't be so impolite to my guest, Henri. Miss Kepler, this is my dearest friend, Monsieur Henri Jean-Martin Luc Alfonse d'Eon du Beauchene."

Du Beauchene scowled at me, in his native tongue he spat, "Another lazy princess to live off our labors."

I smiled in the haughty way that Roger found particularly piquing, replying in perfect French, "Be careful what you say D'Eon of Beauchene, lest you tread too closely to hypocrisy."

Du Beauchene jolted from his glowering stare into a look of almost pleasant surprise.

"Thank you, Miss Veena," I continued in German, before once more returning to that most comfortable tongue I had practiced from my youth, "Pardonne moi, Monsieur Du Beauchene." I turned and flounced off back to whence I had come, knowing without having to look back, that he was still staring.


	21. Chapter 21

As I walked back to the table the weight of what I had done began to dawn upon me bringing down my mood even as sprightly music sprang from a band that had assembled near the far corner of the pavilion. Had I actually challenged him? What in the world could have possessed me to do such a foolhardy thing. His devices were responsible for the deaths of dozens, if not hundreds, of men and from his mien I suspected his own hands were far from clean from the stain of blood. And I had had the gall to mock him over what? A trivial insult to my pride. One I was not even meant to understand, no less? I could have simply walked away, I would have been of no more significance to him than Dinah, but instead I had to prove to him I was not the stupid girl he assumed me to be. Now he knew who I was, that was certain. Such a display would not readily be forgotten. Oh why could I not keep my temper!

My inner chastisement must have shown on my face when I sat down for Gregory said, "Don't be downhearted, he treats everyone that way."

"In what way is that?" Dinah inquired.

"Like insects he would dearly love to crush were he allowed," Georg answered.

A man came by collecting the dishes from the table.

"If he dislikes it here then why does he not leave?"

"He has his reasons. Anyway, he may be poor tempered but he is useful. He is brilliant as an inventor. Though I imagine Mr. Underhill will give him quite a run."

"Quentin, if you please." Quentin glanced up from shading his sketch to give the gentleman his plate. "And I have no intention to usurp the position of another."

"You may not have the intention. But God's purposes and our own are not always one in the same. Every one of us is here for a reason."

"And what is my purpose, I wonder?" I mused abstractly.

"Why to dance with me, of course," Gregory smiled. Standing he offered me his hand. Then he looked to Quentin, "That is, if you fiance will allow it."

Quentin did not look up from his work, "Do as you like, I have no objection."

"Then, shall we, Miss Kepler?"

"Thank you. But I must warn you, I am absolutely dreadful when it comes to dancing."

"She is not being modest," Quentin confirmed while concentrating on tracing a line. "She truly is awful. Particularly when it comes to the Polka." Which was precisely the tune being played at the moment.

I nodded.

"Well, I am willing to take the risk. Miss Underhill, I'm certain my brother is in need of a partner."

"Not at the moment thank you, perhaps a little later." Dinah demurred, still scanning the scene for a face that did not appear. Which was just as well, for all Georg seemed to care.

"Then let us off," Gregory grinned as he took my hand and swept me from my seat to the makeshift dance floor in the dusty clearing outside the pavilion where a number of other couples were already dancing.

"Is there always dancing after supper?" I asked as we turned about the floor.

"Of course, even when the weather is foul we simply put a few of the tables up against the kitchen and dance under the pavilion. It is amazing to dance to the beat of the thunder and pounding of rain. And nothing warms you up for the walk home in the winter quite like a dance." He winced as my boot caught his ankle. "Though I see that what Mr. Underhill said was not in jest."

"I'm sorry, it was not. Though we did try to convince you. Would you prefer to stop?"

"No, I'll soldier on. Only it would be easier if you would just trust me."

"What do you mean?"

"You are fighting a war of wills with me. It is as though you must have your say in every turn. You can do the step as well as any woman, but you do not trust me to guide you around the floor. Just do the step and I swear I will not lead you astray."

"I will try to keep that in mind," I said. And I did try but we still found ourselves crossing paths at every few steps.

"Here." He raised his hand. "Georg!" His brother stood up in answer to Gregory's hail and started to walk over.

"You mean to sacrifice your brother in your place?"

"No. It is only that Georg is a far more accomplished dancer than I. I believe you will be more able to trust his lead than my own." He turned as his brother approached, "Ah, Georg, would you mind taking Miss Kepler for a turn, I am in desperate need of a drink." Gregory leaned in, as if to kiss me on the cheek, and whispered, "Just keep the steps, lean back, and let him concern himself with where you are going."

Georg took me in his arms. His hold was firm, secure, yet yielding. I felt his hand span the center of my back. He looked down on me with a cool disinterest, not unlike an appraiser considering a piece, but yet with a tenderness beyond his detachment. I leaned back as Gregory had said and was startled to feel Geog's hand bearing me up, supporting my weight. He stepped to the side, moving me along with him. And suddenly it was quite easy to keep the step as we spun around the ground.

Gregory never did come back from his drink.

It was almost nightfall by the time the Bauers escorted Dinah and I back to their home. There was already a light on in the window and I was unsurprised when we opened the door to find Quentin in the main room on his feet excitedly jabbering on, hands gesticulating almost wildly as he described how the Archimedes screw might be put to use in milling operations for more efficient production if the flow of water were reversed to a seated Gregory. At least he had an attentive audience. But then, it was always something to see when Quentin was given free rein in regards to his inventions. I could watch him for hours without realizing time had passed at all, such was the infections nature of his passion; though I daresay it was only on the rare occasion I understood what he was talking about at all... or particularly cared, for that matter. The man was wonderful, but he could wax poetic about a spring.

"Gregory Mueller, don't you think it's about time you were getting home?" Mrs. Bauer scolded. "Your brother is going to be wondering about you. And I'm sure Mr. Underhill needs his sleep after his long journey."

The spell was broken. Gregory shook his head as if waking from a daze. Both he and Quentin looked out the window to find it quite dark outside.

"Oh, I'm sorry! I didn't mean to keep you so late," Quentin apologized.

"My fault entirely. Thank you for your hospitality." He tipped his hat hurriedly. "Well, goodnight to you all. May the Lord bless you."

"And you as well," Mr. Bauer said to the man's back as Gregory rushed from the house.

Mrs. Bauer wiped her hands absently on her dress, "Best be off to bed the lot of you. Breakfast will be served promptly at six."

I glanced at the clock, it was already past nine. And I still had a letter to write to Roger! I yawned and shook my head in a vain attempt to rid it from the notion of sleep.

"Go on, or I daresay you're liable to fall asleep where you stand," Mrs. Bauer gestured as if sweeping us off.

"Now goodnight, all!" Mr. Bauer called as we walked down the hall. "Mind you shut your doors or Max may come into your room and try to sleep with you."

"Goodnight dear." Quentin gave me a quick peck on the cheek, turning he gave the same favor to his sister, "Goodnight Dee, may God watch over and protect you until the morning."

We bade him goodnight and went to our room. The moonlight shone bright upon my bed from the window. I took a piece of paper and pen from my bag and lay down, utilizing my pillow as a desk.

"Aren't you going to sleep?" Dinah asked from the bed only feet away.

"I will after I have finished this letter."

"Goodnight, Mina," she said, turning her face from the moonlight.

"Goodnight, Dinah."

I began to write:

 _Dearest Grandmother,_

That was all the further I got. I woke up to the dawn with the pen still in hand, paper slightly disheveled from my head resting upon it.

* * *

It seemed the village was almost designed to keep a person so busy they did not have time for anything else. Despite no activity being required, I found myself constantly occupied with errands and tasks so small in themselves and so politely asked for I could not see my way to refusing them. It seemed the days were over almost as soon as they had begun and after a week I had still not written anything beyond the first line. Quentin was often off with Gregory, more often than not I would find them in the library pouring over a set of sketches or else at the foundry explaining to the blacksmith the precise specifications they needed for a particular item. Dinah was even more preoccupied than her brother, if such a thing were possible. She had opted to take up knitting, a skill she already possessed some ability at, and would spend most of the morning hours with a group of likewise occupied women. Her afternoons were, of course, entirely devoured by Menning whom she had the most curious coincidence to meet every afternoon while she was out strolling around the grounds.

Despite a poor introduction, we had come to find Rachael a most tolerable companion. She was a member of Dinah's knitting circle and began accompanying Miss Underhill to lunch at the Bauer house. It seemed Dinah had become something of an idol to her, and, of course, Dinah was not one to turn away such a pitiable soul. And pitiable she was. From what I gathered she had been quite the talk of Vienna, she had become acquainted with one of the missionaries (for that was the title Menning and those of his ilk were given) and joined the Kingdom of Munster with promises of finding a husband and raising children in a simple, Godly life. I imagine that was precisely the plan when they invited her into the village for they seemed to emphasize the importance of marriage and children almost as much as God. But it seemed she was unable to shed her society ways and the villagers began to find her tiresome, particularly her propensity to gossip (a habit, I imagine, she had formed young, and had once served her well). None of the unmarried men could bear to entertain her, let alone wed her, and thus she found herself on the fringes of society. In small doses I found her a tolerable companion.

She came by Friday afternoon a fortnight after our arrival looking for Dinah while I was attempting to stitch a number of stockings Mrs. Bauer had asked me to mend.

"Is Dinah in?"

"No, I believe she is out walking with Mr. Menning."

Rather than leave, Rachael set down beside me and began to help me with the mending. A gesture I would have appreciated had I not known it to be a sign that she was bursting to talk. After a few minutes she began, rather innocuously, "She does that frequently, doesn't she?"

"She does."

"I think I have seen them walking every day this week."

"It would not surprise me."

"Do you think she is in love with him?"

I knew the answer to this but was not willing to speak it aloud. "You would have to ask her."

"I think she is. But not half so much as he is with her. You should have seen him come riding in the morning before you came to ask the Prophetess to permit you all despite none of you being baptized. I've never seen him look so wild. You would have thought it a matter of life or death." She said these last words with a sly look as though seeking confirmation which I had no intention to give.

"Is that so?" I said, absently.

"Yes, it is so. And yet she still will not get baptized, which leads me to think she does not feel for him as he does for her."

"And what does her baptism have to do with her feelings for him?" I could not avoid the edge my irritation added to the question.

Rachael's eyes shined, she had finally managed to spark a reaction, now all that remained was to fan the flame. She pretended to be very interested in her mending. "Oh, it's nothing. I suppose it may seem, to her thinking, a kinder way of letting him down than an outright rejection, but it seems cruel to continue on in this manner if she is indifferent."

"What can you possibly mean?" I was now almost itching with irritation at her little performance.

She put her sewing down onto her knee as she regarded me slyly, "Well, he cannot propose marriage to her until she is baptized."

"Who says this?"

"It is one of the Laws. An offer of marriage must be approved by the Prophetess before it can be given. And she will never approve a marriage unless both people are baptized."

In my secret heart I had wondered at it. I knew the scene I had witnessed in the wood, I could not have possibly misinterpreted. Yet, what had seemed a certainty had not yet come. But nothing in their actions, their supposedly stolen glances, suggested their feelings had cooled by any measure. So it was her reticence to be baptized that prevented him from acting. It was a pitiable circumstance, for certain. Still, even though it must pain her, it was for the best and she must know it. No matter how much her heart might break over him, she simply could not marry that man!

"Well, that is their business and none of our own, isn't it then?"

"Yes, but it still seems a sad thing." She was not going to drop the subject until it had been played out to death unless I found something new to fixate on. Fortunately I did have a question that had been troubling me.

"I was wondering, and if you do not know the answer you may ignore it, but there was a man who arrived this past Sunday. He seemed rather young, wore spectacles..."

"Has a head strangely reminiscent of a balloon?"

"Well, I suppose that would be one way to describe it." In fact that would be only the second most accurate way to describe the features of the young man I had seen taking supper with the older children since the beginning of the week, but to use the most accurate description would mean it would be lost on Rachael for the man looked identical to Mr. Sperry. It was as though time had somehow reversed itself and deposited the younger version of the man among us.

"That is Daniel Ernst. He just returned from a mission to England. Why do you ask?"

"He just reminded me of someone I once knew is all. But they are quite different in age I think. Is he not a little young to be serving a mission?"

"God calls the young as well as the old. Besides, he is eighteen, that is quite old enough to be spreading the good news of Christ's return. Though I wish he had brought Peter back with him." She finished dreamily.

"Peter?"

"Peter Strunk, of course. He's been on mission to England almost a year, building the church there."

I could tell she wished me ask her more, so I obliged her. "So what is this Mr. Strunk like? Is he amiable?"

"Oh very, and handsome too. A bit young though. He hailed from Cuxhaven, I believe. I never did speak to him much; funny how it can be so easy to talk to some men, but to others it is near impossible. Then I only knew him a month before he was sent on his mission."

I felt a sinking in my stomach, "Pardon the question, but I'm not familiar with Cuxhaven, where might that be?"

"I think somewhere on the northern coast. He had been a fisherman before and he always spoke of the great catches he had made. Every evening after supper it was some tale or other with the other men. I always wished he would see me and ask me to dance, but he never seemed to take any notice of me at all. Perhaps, when he returns, he will be wiser."

I truly had no desire to hear another word about the young Mr. Strunk or her hopes on his return. I could see the rusty fishhooks in my hand still tinted in crimson and I did not wish to consider the possibility any further. "You said the young man's family name was Ernst, the same as Veena?"

Rachael regarded me as though I were quite stupid, "Well of course, he is the Prophetess's son."

I was rather certain Mrs. Sperry would not be keen to learn such information, given her thirty years of marriage to the man. The shame of such a scandal would be almost unbearable. Veena had almost certainly used the child for leverage. What had Mr. Sperry thought the first time he had seen his own eyes in the face of a stranger? At least, I hoped his betrayal was a result of his shame for the alternative, that he was an agent for the fanatics, was far more worrisome.

"I was not aware she had children. I did not even know she is married."

"We are not to speak of that to the unbaptized. However, she has six children and we are allowed to speak of them. Daniel's her eldest son, but she had a daughter quite a few years older, Marigold. Her grave is in the cemetery beside the ash grove."

The sound of the accented English amongst Rachael's German was quite jarring. "I'm sorry to hear such a thing. When did she pass?"

"Oh, she isn't dead."

"Then why would her grave be in the cemetery?" I was utterly perplexed by this.

"She's an apostate. She denied the teachings of the Prophetess and left the village. Whenever someone abandons the Word of God and leaves we hold a funeral for them, that we might grieve for their eternal soul which will now no longer reside with us in Christ's Kingdom in Munster, but will burn with the tempter in Hell for all eternity. We do a burial and make a grave and everything. It's a very sad occasion."

"Have you ever seen one of these funerals?"

"Once, when I first arrived. A man named Puckett, I believe. But I don't recall for certain."

"You said her daughter's name was Marigold?"

"Yes. Unusual isn't it? All of her other children have Biblical names. She must have liked the sound of it."

"Do the other children live with her?"

"Of course not! They live with the rest of the children. I couldn't even tell you which they are, though I think I heard one is named Ruth - not that that means much, for there is a Ruth in every year."

"So, when did you come to the village?"

"About eight months ago, I think. It might be nine. Time tends to move so quickly here. The days are slow but the weeks are gone before you know they have begun."

I suddenly remembered my letter. I had not yet finished it! And, at the moment, I was glad I had not for I now had some information which might prove to be quite important. I hurriedly put the stockings I was mending back in their basket.

"You'll have to pardon me, Miss Dressner, I just remembered something important I have to attend to."

"Oh, I was hoping you might tell me something about yourself," she said with a touch of a whine for that delight I had long denied her.

"Perhaps we will speak more at supper."

* * *

For such a short letter it consumed my entire afternoon and into the evening after supper. The body of the letter simply asked if I might send my next letter to her maid and requested the address. I apologized for the lateness of the letter and hoped she was well and would soon reply. The border contained a message of a rather different sort:

 _James,_

 _We have been taken into the Kingdom of Munster. Their village is located in a forest directly East of Munster, just across the border into the Netherlands. There is a horse trail on the left, a few miles in, that serves as the only path. There are over one thousand residents in the village with estimates of over five thousand members across Europe and Asia. The leader of the village is a woman named Veena Ernst. I have reason to believe she has had close ties with England or another English speaking country._

 _M_

 _PS: I have found the Mueller brothers._

I was considering whether I should add another line when a commotion outside roused me from my writing. It sounded like the rather distressed bleating of a lamb. I looked out the window to see a singular sight.

"Mina!" Dinah hissed as she rushed into the room. "Come quickly!"

I got up and followed her to the doorway where Quentin and the Bauers stood watching the procession. A long line of men, at least one hundred in number, each carrying a torch and wearing robes of the deepest red. The men wore almost flat, white masks which covered their faces entirely and bore an abstract resemblance to a sheep's face. I shuddered at the very sight of them. Around their necks a heavy golden amulet displaying the symbol that had become so familiar to me since the first I had seen it in that dark mine in Cwtch. They chanted in low tones words I could not understand. The head of the procession carried a young white lamb in his arms while it bleated out in fear. They continued their procession past us, toward the church. I dearly wished to follow them but could not think of how that might be accomplished without attracting the attention of the Bauers.

"The March of the Lambs," Mr. Bauer whispered to us as the sounds of their chant died away into the distance.

"But who are they?" I asked.

"The Sanguinem Agnii," he replied reverently. "The Emissaries of the Lord's Will on Earth."


	22. Chapter 22

During the early morning the following day I stopped by the church where Krechtinck, already garbed in his white and gold robes, greeted me at the door.

"Might I speak with Veena-the Prophetess?" I asked, quickly correcting myself.

"She is not in right now."

"Do you know where she might be? I need to speak with her."

"I couldn't say, you might check the school."

I thanked him and made my way to the complex where the children were housed and taught. It was almost a city within itself, abutting the main dining pavilion where the students took all their meals. There were six long houses which served as dormitories, each housing fifty children in twenty five bunk beds lined neatly on either side with a small room inwhich two nurses lived. These houses surrounded a large open ground where the children were allowed to play when not in instruction, during instruction they served as an exercise pitch where older students were taught hunting skills. Twice I had seen Georg and Gregory giving rifle instruction. A seventh and eighth smaller houses served as nurseries for the infants until they were old enough to be moved into the dormitories with their fellows. During the day the dining pavilion served as a school where the children were divided into four corners based on age and ability. It was strange to me how isolated the children were from the rest of the village, they were rarely, if ever, underfoot. I had seen one or two in the Library, the few times I had been able to visit, but never any of the younger children. It seemed as though they were to spring, fully formed and armed for battle as Athena from the head of Zeus, into the community upon their Baptism at the age of seventeen and were otherwise only under the attention of their nurses. And Veena, of course, who lavished them with affection and indulgence, affection they returned with an almost slavish devotion.

I found her among a small group of children gathered on the far corner benches of the dining pavilion making some sort of craft with flowers which did not seem to be progressing for the children kept giving Veena all their finest flowers leaving only stems and half blooms for themselves. A nurse watched from the opposite corner, careful not to intrude.

She noticed my approach as she received a diminutive blossom from a boy no older than six. "Ah, Miss Kepler. Is there something I can do for you?"

The she can do for me. Every word from her was calculated to convey that it was through her, and her alone, that all things might be accomplished. All needs met, all wishes granted. I had noticed it before in her sermons.

"Yes, I have finished my letter to my Grandmother and I wondered if you might have it delivered." I produced the slight epistle from my bag. I had taken care to seal the envelope. I had no doubt it would be tampered with, nor would Roger be so naive to think it had not been read, but still it seemed the thing to do in order to convey a sense that I believed it would not be.

"Certainly, my dear," she said, taking the letter. It was at that moment I noticed the skin on her palms. It was pink and pulled tight, otherwise it was knotty and strange. I almost could not be certain of what I had seen for they were only visible for a flash and then gone. "You have chosen a good time, I have a man leaving for Munster tomorrow. He should be able to deliver your letter to the post office when he arrives."

"Thank you." I made to leave.

"If you might wait a moment, Miss Kepler?"

I froze, "Yes, ma'am?"

"Children, would you please excuse Miss Kepler and I."

The children moaned in protest.

"Run along, now. I will see you tonight at the bunkhouse for night prayers."

The children did as they were told, going to the nurse who led them in a line back toward the dormitory.

"Bunkhouse," I said, attempting to feign a certain sense of ease. "I am not familiar with that word."

"I do apologize, it is a word I learned during my time in exile. It means a barrack or... I suppose 'dormitory' would be the English word. I have noticed your German has been improving."

"Yes, it has been easy with so much opportunity to practice."

"I am glad. I see your friend has lately taken up knitting."

"Yes, she is quite talented at it."

"I wonder that you have not joined her as well."

"No, I'm dreadful when it comes to knitting."

"It troubles me that you have not yet found a place in our community."

"I am certain I will. Quentin tells me that when it seems that a common place cannot be found for you, it is because God meant you to do uncommon things."

"Perhaps that is so. I was merely worried that you were perhaps having difficulty because you were not happy here."

"Oh no, it's not that at all! I am very grateful for all that you have done for us. It is only..."

"Yes, my dear?"

"I am worried for my Grandmother. What if she were to take a bad turn? I am afraid I will not be able to see her again."

"Of course you will be able to see her, my lamb! I would never dream of keeping you from her. If you find there is a need we can always have someone take you. Heinrich will be going to and from Munster every week, so he will be able to escort you should the need arise."

"Every week? But I thought he stayed in Munster for months at a time?"

"Yes, I felt it would be best to change his schedule. We have many strong leaders in the Munster congregation and the Lord has told me that it is time they took on a greater role. Heinrich will be supervising the transition until such time as the Lord calls him to a different mission field."

"Thank you! You have put my mind at ease!"

"I am glad. May God grant you peace and blessings on this day."

"Thank you," I said and turned to leave.

"Oh, and Miss Moore...?"

"Yes?" I half-turned to face the woman.

"Do try to find something that might appeal to you, you'll find occupation does tend to ease the troubled mind."

"Thank you, I will try."

* * *

As I walked away I pondered what had been said. I dearly wanted to believe the change in Heinrich's schedule was for Dinah's sake, but the cold gleam in her eye as she said this left me in doubt. There was something in Veena's relationship with Menning that troubled me. The way she always kept him by her side, watched him with a suspicious eye whenever he was in the company of Dinah. It might have been my own imagination, for Veena had a circle of men she kept close in the same way, many of whom were married. But all the same, there was something about it that troubled me.

I decided to go for a walk, that I might not be seen loitering about the Bauer's house with Max for want of occupation. As I approached the copse I could hear gunshots. Going over the hill I saw Georg practicing. He was shooting two pistols in tandem with such a cool expression one might have thought he were merely contemplating the breeze if not for the retort of the guns. I watched him for a minute, then hailed him as he stopped to reload.

"Good Morning, Mr. Mueller!"

He looked up from his task, "Good Morning, Miss Kepler. Out for a walk?"

"I was, but I was distracted. Your shooting is truly extraordinary."

It might have simply been the sun but it appeared his tanned cheeks reddened somewhat.

"You are welcome to stay and watch if you like. I'm only hammering in nails."

"Thank you, Mr. Mueller, I think I will."

He spun the barrel before fixing it into place with a quick slap of his hand. "You are welcome to call me Georg, if you have a mind to."

"Thank you, but I so rarely can call you 'Mr. Mueller' I wish to take advantage of the opportunity. Where is Gregory today?"

"I would think you would know better than I."

My nose crinkled with a smile, "I suppose they are down by the stream again."

"At that Mede's screw."

"They do seem to be kindred spirits."

"Funny thing about it;" he aimed the pistol, "for as long as I've known him, my brother's never shown much interest in machines until he met your fiance." Georg fired six rounds into the trees, a resounding metallic ding marking each one.

"Yes, Quentin does seem to have that effect on people. He'll start on about something or other and suddenly you'll find yourself wanting to apply Copernicus to clock making."

Georg fired six more shots from his other pistol.

"Don't you ever miss?" I declared.

He allowed a smirk to twist the side of his mouth, "Sometimes."

"When exactly?"

He seemed to ponder this for a moment. "Last February," he replied, his expression granting no quarter to even the faintest twitch that might reveal whether he was in earnest or not. He began once more to load his pistols.

"Last February? You must be joking!"

"I suppose you shall just have to watch and find out." He frowned as he filled the last chamber. "Though not for much longer today, I'm afraid, I only have enough bullets for a few more rounds."

I pouted, "That is a pity." And truly it was. I had hoped to observe Mr. Mueller's shooting style in the hopes I might find a weakness that we could exploit were Roger and I ever to cross him. Gregory was human: talented, certainly, but capable of missing. Georg seemed a terrifying machine in comparison, every shot he made was with a horrible, mechanical precision. It almost left me relieved to know his older brother was dead, were he as good as his younger brother's had boasted (if not for the knowledge of the lives lost in the process I could have been).

"Well, there's not much to be done for it. I'll have to visit Mr. Du Beauchene to obtain a fresh supply later."

"Do you think I might go for you? I have nothing else pressing at the moment." I suggested.

"If it wouldn't put you out too much, I'd be obliged to you."

* * *

Thus I found myself at the door to Du Beauchene's workshop already deeply regretting my offer. Unlike most of the buildings the workshop was dark and foreboding, a cobbled together mixture of scarred metal and wood stained by years of exposure to smoke and the elements. Portions of the wall looked as though they had simply been leaned onto the frame. The far side was more open appearing to have been added on as an afterthought. Through wide, uncovered slats I could see the fire of a forage burning brightly. Aside from the front there had not been much effort to enclose it at all. I approached what appeared to be a wooden door that loosely hung from rusted hinges. For a man so meticulous in his designs this was not how I pictured his workshop in the least. Stealing myself, I knocked on the door.

There was no answer.

I knocked again.

Still no answer. The door swayed from the slight impact revealing a dark interior broken by beams of sunlight that burst through the cracks. Cautiously, I stepped inside peering through the dust particles that floated through the rays of light at the row upon row of shelves stacked with wooden boxes. I took a few tentative steps inside.

"Hello?" I called. "Monsieur Du Beauchene?"

As I walked further into the dark aisles I saw a pool of light, the unnatural golden hue of a lamp, emanating from a recessed area just beyond the set of shelves on my left. I could hear the sound of low muttering in French, many of the words unfit for the ears of a lady. I crept closer until I could see the arched back of the man at work, his coat and waistcoat hung limply off the ear of his chair. Moving closer I could see him bent over a drafting desk of a style I had not seen before, for it had a number of drawers and a ledge on the top where a number of utensils had been set as well as a heavily stained teacup which had sat for some time judging by the lack of steam rising from it and the line where water had once been but had since evaporated. On the left side of the ledge, opposite his tea, an ancient looking lamp glowed, trough the dim light of the room.

Monsieur Du Beauchene was carefully rendering the arch of a bridge support. I dearly wished to continue watching, but it would not do if he discovered me in such a manner. Though I somehow doubted he would were I to watch the remainder of the day.

"Monsieur Du Beauchene?"

His back jerked straight, he turned his head slightly so that it was only the side of his eye through which he initially regarded me.

"Miss Kepler, is it? How long have you been standing there?" He had not even bothered to attempt to switch to German from his native tongue.

"Only a few minutes," I returned, relieved that I did not even have to attempt the German with him. "I called from the door, but you did not answer."

"I do not like to be disturbed when I am working. What brings you to my workshop?"

"Georg Mueller asked me to bring him some bullets, he has nearly finished his store of them."

"Georg Mueller. Did he send you with any of the spent shells?"

"No."

"Of course not."

"I'm sorry, I did not think to ask."

"And why would I expect you to think of such a thing?"

"I wouldn't know."

"Then there is nothing to apologize for," he said, rudely. "I detest apologies for the sake of politeness. It was his thoughtlessness and you should own no part of it."

Naturally his response brought an apology to my lips but I managed to stifle it.

His piercing eyes caught the movement anyhow and he smirked, turning back to his sketch, "They are on the second shelf behind you, third box on the right."

I turned from him and began searching for the specified container, a task far easier spoken than accomplished for the vast collection of items on the shelf, most coated in a thick layer of soot and dust.

"I came upon one of your books at the library."

"That does not surprise me," he replied in a disinterested tone. "A fair number of the books in the Library are my own collection."

"It made for an interesting read, though I felt the argument was more deftly executed by the nimble pen of Descartes."

This seemed to grab his attention for he turned wholly from his work to regard me, "You have read Descartes?"

"Well certainly. There does not seem much point in learning the language if one does not use it to read the great works. That would be nonsensical. Ah here they are!" I exclaimed as I extracted a small box of bullets from beneath three of similar shape and form.

"Do you enjoy watching Mr. Mueller shoot?"

"I don't normally seek it out, but I was out for a walk and happened to come upon him. It seemed an interesting way to pass the time."

"To pass the time," he repeated me.

"Yes. Though it is not half so interesting as all of this."

"You find my work interesting?"

"Why would I not?"

"Well, Miss Kepler, if you ever find you need to 'pass the time' as it were, you are welcome to return any time you wish." He turned back to his work.

"Are you certain that would be alright?"

"I would not have said so if it weren't."

"Thank you, Monsieur Du Beauchene. I believe I shall."

"Also, Miss Kepler, in the library there is a book entitled 'Pourquoi l'on ne croit pas' by Laforet. You might find it... interesting."

"I shall look into it. Thank you again, Mons. Du Beauchene."

I left the dilapidated workshop, my heart pounding in my throat. I could not imagine how I had managed to speak to him so freely. There was something terribly fearsome in his demeanor yet that very something compelled me to wish to continue conversing with him. His every expression was of barely contained rage cloaked by a veil of bitterness. No, not rage. Maleavolence. And something even beyond that. A deep sinister vein that flowed darkly through him as a river buried within the heart of a mountain. His every word thrilled through me like the cool breath of danger down my spine. It was terrifying and yet enticing. Like reading ghost stories in the dead of a Winter's night. I shivered, causing the bullets in the box to rattle in my hand.

"Your face is a bit pale," Georg observed on my arrival. "He didn't scare you, did he? I know he frightens many of the women."

"No, not at all."

"That is fortunate. He was not too harsh with you, I hope."

"No," I said, handing him the bullets.

"Are you certain you are feeling well? You look out of sorts."

"I am perfectly well. Perhaps it is just the exertion of walking so much in the sun on such a warm day. I am certain I will revive if I rest for a while."

"As you say." He placed the box on the ground and began to reload.

Try as I might to attend to the target practice my mind kept returning to the dilapidated workshop to the narrow back of the man bent over his work. I found myself mentally focusing on the sketch of the bridge as the skilled hands traced the lines into perfection. It was a great stone structure with slender columns connecting the arches in a design instantly reminiscent of a Roman aqueduct. I watched in silence, the picture growing more distinct. My gaze slowly drew back, following the hand, shirtsleeve undone at the cuff so that the cloth hung loose revealing the tanned skin of the wrist. The sharp angle of the shoulder hunched over the work. The slender bend of the neck, the edge of the overly large ears sticking out in relief from the jet black hair, cropped short. The face turned slightly so that the strange proportions and lines of his face could be seen. His eyes, almost obscured by the heavy, dark brows, lovingly caressed his creation.

"Miss Kepler?"

I returned to myself with a start, "Yes, Georg?"

"Are you certain you are all right? You seem a bit distracted." Georg was staring at me from where the box of bullets sat. I had not even realized he had stopped shooting.

"Perhaps you are right, I may be coming down with something. I do apologize. I hope it would not offend you if I took my leave."

"Not at all," he said, reloading his gun. "I'll be here tomorrow the same as today." He hit the chamber against his leg to snap it into place.

"Thank you. You and Gregory will join us at supper, I suppose?"

"If you wish it." He took aim at the target boards and began shooting.

Rather than return to the Bauer's house I found myself at the Library where I remained until supper without even noticing lunch had passed.

* * *

I attempted to put away any secret desire I had to return to the workshop. Yet thoughts of it seemed to have infected my mind. I knew it was a rare opportunity and using that as an excuse I had come within sight of the place before turning and walking in the other direction. At supper I often found Mons. Du Beauchene's black eyes seeking me out. I tried to pretend I had taken no notice that he was watching. He was not like the others who contentedly followed their prophetess. He saw things for what they were; and I feared more than anything, that were I to allow him the opportunity, unfettered by the distractions of others, he might soon see me or what I was as well. I waited, almost desperately, for word from Roger.

It was a week before a letter arrived. During that time I chose to focus my attention on the borders of my voluntary prison, taking walks along the edges of the forest. It was on one of these walks I saw something odd, a patch of bright yellow among the dead leaves and sparse plants common to the forest floor, to my eyes it looked to be a flower bed. It was out quite a ways into the wood, further than I had ventured before, probably not more than a half mile from the horse trail, though out of the view of the guard towers which stood watch over that path (which I had had the misfortune to discover a few days before, given the rudeness of the watchmen). I decided to investigate. It was only a short walk to the little flower bed which I could now very plainly see. They were marigolds! Dozens of them! Contained within a makeshift brickwork. It seemed such a marvelous thing to find in such a place.

I ventured a little further into the trees at a diagonal line toward the trail and away from where I supposed the guards to be located, looking back periodically to check that I could still see my flowers. I was within sight of the horse trail before I lost sight of them. Perhaps I might be able to use these flowers to my advantage. I took my compact from my bag and carefully loosened a vine from a nearby tree. I slid the mirror down, fully opened, through the gap between the vine and the tree, to the hinge and then folded the compact so that it hung from the vine at a right angle. I walked further toward the path and looked back to see the little mirror winking at me. I walked on, further, until I was on the well trampled dirt of the horse path. Still I could see the sun glinting off the compact. It was only just visible, the type of thing that would go unnoticed unless you knew to look.

For a moment I hesitated. Freedom lay just down this path. Freedom and Roger and safety. Just knowing Roger was near filled me with a great sense of security. I supposed it had been this way ever since that night under the bridge. No, it went back further. I could not recall a time the thought of him did not bring to my mind a feeling that I was protected. As a little girl I remembered looking out the window at the hill he had disappeared over that night and knowing that somewhere, out there, my spy was out protecting me, protecting our country, from those who would do it evil. And now, with him so far away and I in the midst of danger, I found I desperately yearned for his company.

Or perhaps, it was simply his company I yearned for. I could still see him, as on that day when we had gone shopping for dresses. That night, walking home from the Library, the way the city light reflected in his eyes as he smiled at having successfully vexed me into silence. But it was not a cruel triumph he regarded me with, but something far gentler. A fondness. Living in the same house for months, I had grown accustomed to him. To be without him I felt as though a piece were missing in my life. An emptiness that, at this moment with freedom bidding me follow, I was desperate to fill. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. I tore myself from the path and turned back to the direction from whence I had just come, fighting the urge to cry for what I knew I was abandoning at that moment. I would return again when my resolve not to leave was stronger.

I took note of my paces back to the flower garden and continued, without breaking my diagonal line, until I had reached the edge of the forest. From there I walked toward the guard towers, keeping track of my steps the entire way until a voice from above accosted me.

"Hey, I thought I told you to stay away from here!"

I shielded my eyes from the blinding sun that shone over the two tall towers that guarded the path. They had been built in the upper portion of two tall trees, not unlike two large treehouses with spikes driven into them to allow access. I had not noticed them the day we had arrived. A man whose features I could not see due to the light stared down at me.

"I'm sorry, I was walking and got lost."

"A likely tale."

"Leave her be, Smit," a familiar voice said.

"Gregory, is that you?"

"Good morning, Miss Kepler." Gregory waved from the tower.

"I thought you would be with Quentin this morning!" I exclaimed.

"I would be, if I didn't have guard duty this morning. Hold on a moment, I'll come down." He shimmied down the tree so quickly it was almost as if he slid, he landed grinning happily as he greeted me with a friendly embrace.

"He must have been quite put out when he heard," I laughed.

"It's for the best. Sometimes I feel badly, like I'm stealing him from you."

"Well I'm glad of it. Something has to keep him occupied or he'll start coming up with the most completely mad ideas. You would not believe some of the things he has tried to make for me."

"Glad I could be of service then, I suppose. So you say you have lost your way? Do allow me to escort you back to town."

"You can't leave your post!" the other man, Smit, yelled from above.

"It is only for a few minutes to guide this fair maiden to the right path, I have confidence you can fend off the great wave of intruders while I am away." He made a grand gesture toward the empty wood. A butterfly flitted from the forest into the light. Gregory and I broke into laughter at the sight of it. "Well come on, I'll have it hard from Smit for the rest of the afternoon if I am gone too long."

* * *

By the end of the week I had been able to follow the entire horse trail to the other side of the wood. It was only a three mile distance from where my secret path met it, and by applying the Pythagorean theorem, I could estimate the whole of the trail was only about five miles. On Friday morning, Mr. Bauer greeted me at breakfast with a letter.

"This arrived last night, I know you've been waiting for it."

The envelope was dressed all in flowers and birds. I opened it and read the first line,

 _To my dearest granddaughter,_

If Roger had been present I might have thrown something blunt and heavy in his direction. Instead I smiled.

"Thank you, Mr. Bauer! Do you mind if I read it?"

"After you've finished breakfast, dear." Mrs. Bauer said with a grandmotherly smile.

I wolfed down my breakfast despite Mrs. Bauer's admonishments that I should try to be more lady-like when I ate, if for no other reason, than for the fact my fiance was witness to it all and I should damage my image in his eyes.

"No," he chuckled. "I know precisely the woman I am marrying."

Breakfast accomplished, I took the letter to my room and began to read it. I was quite cross that he had decided to begin the first letter with a "t" for I knew he had done it intentionally. Still, it only added a few extra minutes to the translation.

 _Your mail is being read_

The letter began.

 _The Schnaebele incident has been handled. I have yet to find any information on a Veena Ernst in any census records, but rest assured I will discover her. I have spoken with Mr. Harriman and he has volunteered his great aunt to serve in the role of Mrs. Kepler. Please direct all future letters to the address written in the body of the letter._

The body of the letter contained my Grandmother's regrets that my Uncle had displayed such low character which she blamed on city-living in Vienna, apparently a den of sin and debauchery according to the opinion of the fictitious old lady. She wrote I was welcome to write her at home any time and that she would see to my uncle. Somehow I could not help but see an image of my little old grandmother pulling Roger by the ear and scolding him. I smiled in spite of myself.

 _If you can give me any further information of your whereabouts for I have no doubt you have gained some please send them as soon as might be managed. I am making arrangements. Be safe. James._

Making arrangements? Whatever could he mean? It was no matter. I had the information he required and I quickly dispatched a reply. By the next week a response had come. Apparently, my grandmother was not feeling quite so well as she had been and the doctor was telling her it was the beginning of the end. Above the note only one line of flowers and butterflies stood in decoration.

 _Meet me at midnight at the marigolds._


	23. Chapter 23

I left the room weeping clutching the letter, only to return a few minutes later looking as though I might be able to speak before once more bursting into tears and running back to my room. I waited a few minutes more and managed to make it back to the dining area where I handed the letter to Quentin before once more loosing the torrents upon my bewildered audience. I ran to my room with Dinah following close behind.

"Is something the matter?"

I ran my sleeve across my eyes, revealing a perfectly composed countenance. "Of course not." I whispered. I made a loud sobbing noise which I muffled with a pillow. "I just need an excuse to be left alone for the day."

Dinah nodded, "I will tell them you are inconsolable and wish not to be disturbed. For how long?"

"Until tomorrow, at the earliest."

She nodded once more, then went to the door. Noticing the pair of dark shadows in the slit between the door and the frame I buried my face in my hands as she opened the door revealing Mr. Bauer, hand raised to knock.

"Will you be all right, Miss Kepler?" he stammered.

"She needs some time alone," Dinah said, gently ushering Mr. Bauer from the doorway. As Dinah closed the door I could hear Mrs. Bauer scolding him for bothering me so soon after receiving such upsetting news.

I waited an hour arguing with myself what my next move should be. Should I simply wait until nightfall and make my escape? But then what information did I have to give Roger? A drawing that could have just as easily been an aqueduct as a bridge? A map of the village? Foreboding snippets of information that had in no way coalesced into a solid form. I had not felt this useless since Roger had cornered me in my Uncle's garden. And why? Simply because Mons. Du Beauchene made me feel uncomfortable? Was I still the same little girl I had been? I was lauded as one of the finest spies in England and I was being ridiculous. I had allowed myself to be lulled into a false sense of security about this place, but in reality why should I be any less frightened of Du Beauchene than of Gregory or Georg? Particularly when I knew them to be the only men capable of putting a bullet through a man's ear hole from over one hundred yards. All I knew of Du Beauchene was that he was functionally the Quartermaster. Certainly his manners were unsettling; but that was hardly an excuse. Were Roger to know that I had been invited to Mons. Du Beauchene workshop and had been avoiding it for weeks he would give me no end of it.

I resolved myself, I would visit Mons. Du Beauchene.

Quietly, I opened the door. Max padded softly over to me and shoved his massive face against my leg. He stared up at me dolefully, giving a whine. I rubbed the base of his ears, causing them to flop about. He grinned, his tongue lolling out.

"Miss Kepler, is that you?" Mr. Bauer called from his workshop.

"I just need to get some air."

"Miss Kepler, should you need anything..." he began.

"I will ask, thank you."

I strode out the door into the sun. Gazing up at the sky I could see thick clouds forming above, threatening rain. I prayed they would pass quickly.

* * *

I had forgotten how far Mons. Du Beauchene's workshop was from the Bauer's house, it was settled at almost the opposite end of the village on the edge of the forest. It was perhaps even more foreboding in appearance than the first time I had seen it. I noticed this time that the trees behind it were deeply scared, a few completely or partially dead which did nothing to improve the foreboding atmosphere.

I knocked on the door.

"Monsieur Du Beauchene?" I called.

"Ah, Miss Kepler, come in," a voice said from within.

I opened the door, the overhead clouds caused the place to look darker than before. I carefully picked my way toward the light of a lamp from near the other end of the building. Passing by the odd little drafting desk I saw the sketch he had been working on before, the page now finished and inked with accessory sketches and that now familiar writing decorating the remaining parchment. There were areas of intricate detail where he had drawn in the placement of the bombs that would be necessary to take down what I could now clearly tell was a railroad bridge. I continued on.

I came upon Mons. Du Beauchene in an alcove that extended to the wall where he stood with a number of devices, glass tubes and beakers, partially filled flasks and large tubs of what looked to be water under an old metal fume hood that was attached to a pipe which appeared to go outside. He was bent beside a burette stand, carefully titrating a solution into a miniature flask.

"I apologize for not greeting you at the door, but, as you can see, I am a bit preoccupied at the moment. Please pardon the smell."

"I don't smell anything." And beyond the scent of ancient dust and dirt this was true.

He raised a brow. "Interesting."

"Might I ask what you are doing?"

"I am making salts." he said, taking the vial and swirling it gently before his eyes. "This is a particular potassium salt which I find very useful."

I noted two brown vials, a small one and a much larger one. They were marked with the letters HCN and KOH, respectively. Potassium Cyanide. That was what he was making. Quentin had taken care to educate me in at least the most common poisons.

"So what did you think of the book?"

"Who says I read it?"

"You would not be here if you hadn't"

"It was a decent meditation on the rise of modern atheism and faith."

"Only a decent meditation? What parts did you find troublesome?"

"Well less troublesome than incomplete, I should say."

"Incomplete?"

We fell into discussion of the book as he continued about his task.

Finally, feeling bored with simply standing and talking as he worked, I asked, "Is there anything I might do to help?"

"If you think you would be comfortable with it I could use some assistance with the next vial so that I can began preparations to create the precipitate."

He instructed me in the process and left me to it while he worked on my other side. I was very thankful for the many hours I had spent at Quentin's side, assisting him in his experiments.

Du Beauchene regarded me with a raised brow as he watched me work the little knob, "You are quite adept at this for a woman."

"You forget who my fiance is."

Du Beauchene lightly snorted in a manner that could only be derisive, "Yes. I am surprised he allowed you to assist him."

"It was either Dinah or I, and Dinah had grown rather weary of it. Do you not have an assistant?"

"When I began Mr. Bauer assisted me for a while."

"Mr. Bauer? I thought he only specialized in clocks."

"Clocks are his hobby, but before he used to work in a factory in the Krummel Hills, the name is not important, but needless to say he was somewhat useful to me. There was another after him. Eben, I think his name was. He was an oaf of a boy, careless. Left some photosensitive chemicals out in the sun with the predictable explosive results. Destroyed most of my workshop and himself with it. Buried what was left of him in the cemetery. He's probably the only real body buried there. Besides the Rosendorfs, of course."

"The Rosendorfs?"

"It is not surprising you have not heard of them. They were brought in only two years after we founded the village. By all accounts they were a fine upstanding couple. But they harbored a secret sin. It may have been one or both who committed the deed but they were both infected. Their crime was revealed when their first child was born, a boy. They never brought it out, claimed it was sickly. This was before the first children's home was built. Finally Veena insisted she be allowed to see the child. We forced the door and found the child, the mark of its parents sin upon its face. It was a horrible thing to see, for by this time the child's face had been almost entirely eaten away. I did the only merciful thing for the child, what the parents should have done. The parents were declared guilty in the eyes of the Lord and their wickedness punished."

"Punished?" I said, placing the finished vial on the table.

Du Beauchene ran his thumb across his throat.

I gasped in horror. "Over syphilis?"

He raised his brows, I suspected he did not expect I would guess their affliction. "They had committed deceit. They had lied to the prophetess and thus they had lied to God."

"Why would you tell me such a horrible thing?" I exclaimed.

"I don't know. Perhaps to see if you would believe me."

"You mean to tell me you simply made it up?"

"Perhaps I did and perhaps I didn't. Perhaps they were murdered in their own home, or perhaps they died during the influenza outbreak that year."

"Why would you toy with me like that?"

"Because, Miss Kepler, you intrigue me. And there are very few things that intrigue me. So what do you think of me, Miss Kepler? Do you think me capable of killing an infant?"

"I think there is precious little you are not capable of."

A grin spread across his face, so sinister it sent shivers down my spine. "And yet you are still here."

I said nothing but continued my work.

"Very intriguing, indeed."

* * *

I left Du Beauchene's workshop well after noon. He had shared half a small loaf of bread and butter with me as something of a lunch before informing me that he would be preparing saltpeter to be combined to make gunpowder that afternoon and that he would prefer I not be present for my own safety. He suggested I considering reading another book in the library, The Spiritual Combat by a man of the name Lorenzo Scupoli.

"It is translation to French, but accurate to the original. It should not take you long to finish," he said as he led me out.

I returned to the Bauer's house and immediately went straight to my room and shut the door. A few hours later Mrs. Bauer knocked at the door asking if I wished to accompany them for dinner. I declined the offer claiming I was not hungry. Another hour passed and there was another knock at the door.

"I know you said you were not hungry, but I brought a plate back for you just in case." Mrs. Bauer said.

"We'll just leave it at the door for you," Mr. Bauer added. I heard the Bauers walk back to the parlour speaking in sympathetic tones.

Oh blessed woman! Oh kindly man! For by now I was quite famished and had nothing to occupy my mind but my thoughts which were more and more interrupted by the insistence of my stomach that it be attended to. I waited until it seemed prudent and then quickly snuck the food into the room where I ate as if the hunger of the world was upon me. Dinah came in to check on how I was while I was mid-bite into a leg of chicken.

"Everyone is very sorry to hear about your grandmother. Heinrich said he will pray for her to recover."

"I wish him all the best in that endeavor, but I am not certain I would want that considering she's been almost twenty years in the grave."

Dinah allowed half a smile, "I wish we did not have to deceive them. I feel terrible always lying to them."

"You mean to Heinrich."

"And the Bauers as well, and the Muellers - they have all been so very welcoming to us."

"The Mueller's also assassinated an official in France."

"You can't be certain it was them!"

"Yes I can," I said darkly.

"It's just hard for me to believe that such kind people are capable of such evil."

"Dinah, I want you to answer me honestly: If Heinrich Menning proposes to you do you intend to accept him?"

She looked taken aback, as though that I should ask such a question was shocking to her. "I don't know what you could mean."

"Yes, you do. I followed you into the woods the night before we left. I saw you and Menning."

Her shock slowly dissolved into a look of desperation, "Please do not tell Quentin! He would never approve!"

"So you do intend to accept him?"

"I did not say that."

"Have you agreed to be baptized?"

She turned her eyes to her hands, folded in her lap, "No. I could never..."

I clasped her hands in my own, "Dinah, do not let your feelings cloud your judgement. I know it is hard, but we must keep on a little longer."

"I know."

"Can I trust you?"

"You can. I do care for Mr. Menning, but he does not own my heart, for most of it is buried under an unmarked cross in the soil of England," she said, miserably.

I embraced Dinah.

"Perhaps when Veena has been exposed he will see the light."

"I do not dare hope such things. It is my lot and I must accept it. There is a joy just in knowing I am able to love again."

"I envy you can think that way."

She wiped a tear from her eye, "But that is neither here nor there. What do you need from me tonight?"

"I have checked the window and I believe I will be able to slip out that way but it's a bit of a drop, I won't be able to climb back in. Might you put a crate near it? Not right under mind you (that would draw too much attention), but just to the side?"

"I will."

"And do tell the Bauers I have gone to sleep but that I did eat the food so they need not worry."

"Of course. Good luck, Mina."

"Thank you."

* * *

The sun began to set, painting the sky in deep wines. It was almost black when I heard the strange chanting, the loud bleating of a lamb. From the window I could see the glow of torches as the procession passed by. I rushed to the window, standing on my bed I could see them marching along. One of the clocks had chimed nine only minutes ago, there was plenty of time before I had to meet Roger. The Bauers would be watching from the front, no one would be watching the window. I opened it and climbed out, relieved to find the crate I had requested already in place. I sought the wooden edge with my foot and used it to step down, as it were, to the ground. The procession had nearly passed. I followed them at a distance as they entered the stave church. Krechtinck shut the door.

Without checking, I knew it would be locked. I went around to the back where the roof was just low enough it might be climbed with little aid. I shifted the rain barrel over to the corner. It was fortunate that it had thus far been a dry spring and I was therefore able to move the barrel, which still had over a foot of water inside. I climbed up on the barrel, balancing myself on the thin wooden ledges, and pulled myself onto the roof. From there I clamored around the cupola to a set of windows from whence a dim light was shining. I lay down flat on the roof so that I could look down through the windows into a room I had never seen before. It was round in shape with a large altar which sat upon an elevated stage. Though it was lit by candles the room still appeared dark. The men in robes knelt facing the altar where the lamb, no longer bleating for its terror, had been laid.

Krechtinck stood before the right side of the altar in his white and gold robes, a large knife in hand. On the left stood Du Beauchene, wearing a black robe that buttoned down the front and looked not unlike a Priest's clerics. Behind the altar Veena stood. On either side of her were Georg and Gregory, neither clad in robes but in the same clothes they had worn when I had met them, holding their pistols across their chests. Georg, who stood left of Veena, held his in his left hand (though I knew he favored his right) while Gregory held his gun in his right. so that they appeared as a physical mirror reflection of each other. Behind Veena a round, white marble plate shined from where it was set, slightly tilted as though on an easel, to face the crowd.

"May the Lord except this sacrifice for the atonement of our sins!" Kretchtinck announced.

"Forgive us, oh Lord," the men chanted, bowing down so that their foreheads almost touched the floor.

Veena stood before the crowd, spreading her arms "Forasmuch as ye know that ye were not redeemed with corruptible things, as silver and gold, from your vain conversation received by tradition from your fathers; but with the precious blood of Christ, as of a lamb without blemish and without spot: Who verily was foreordained before the foundation of the world, but was manifest in these last times for you, who by him do believe in God, that raised him up from the dead, and gave him glory; that your faith and hope might be in God. Seeing ye have purified your souls in obeying the truth through the Spirit unto unfeigned love of the brethren, see that ye love one another with a pure heart fervently: being born again, not of corruptible seed, but of incorruptible, by the word of God, which liveth and abideth for ever. For all flesh is as grass, and all the glory of man as the flower of grass. The grass withereth, and the flower thereof falleth away: but the word of the Lord endureth for ever. And this is the word which by the gospel is preached unto you."

She smiled at her followers, continuing, "For the life of a creature is in the blood, and I haven given it to you to make atonement for yourselves on the altar; it is the blood that makes atonement for one's life. In fact the law requires that nearly everything be cleansed with blood, and without the shedding of blood there is no forgiveness."

Krechtinck took the knife and slit the lamb's throat. Then he ran the knife down the chest of the creature to its belly, splitting it open. Red blood gushed out over the altar where Krechtinck collected the drippings into a white bowl. The men removed their crimson robes and sheep masks revealing white clothing underneath, they knelt once more. I was taken aback for I had assumed them all men, but among their numbers a contingent of women bowed before their prophetess. Kneeling in front of the crowd, before the altar was Heinrich Menning himself.

"These are they who have come out of the great tribulation; they have washed their robes and made them white in the blood of the Lamb. They triumphed over the adversary by the blood of the Lamb and by the word of their testimony; they did not love their lives so much as to shrink from death. But alas, not all are clean."

There was a murmur from the crowd.

"I am sorry to report one of our own number has been swayed by the temptations of the evil one. Heinrich," Heinrich stood, "please bring Falina to the front."

Menning strode over to a young woman with long black hair and beckoned her stand. She almost could not for how she shook but somehow she managed to stand and follow Menning to the front where she stood before Veena. Falina was extraordinarily beautiful with a dark, exotic complexion as though she were Spanish or Greek.

"Falina, my dear," Veena spoke to the girl in soothing tones, "you failed to complete the task the Lord had appointed to you, can you tell us why?"

"He, he just seemed so very nice. He had a wife and children. I could not make myself do it."

"You allowed yourself to be swayed. You knew what the Lord had commanded of you, but you chose not to fulfill his command. It was not that the Lord prevented you from your task in order that He might lead you to His true task as he did with my Avenging Angel; but that you deliberately chose to defy God. To ignore His judgement of this man and replace it with your own. You have deliberately broken the covenant with Him who gave His very life for you."

The girl fell to her knees weeping, "Oh Prophetess! I am sorry! I am so so sorry! I knew I must come back and atone."

"Arise my child." Veena extended her hand to the girl who grasped it and stood. "It is written: There are sins that men commit for which they cannot receive forgiveness in this world, or in that which is to come. There is now only one condition left for you to receive forgiveness that you may not be cut off from the Lord forever or else you must be cast out of His presence forever. You know this condition."

While I certainly could not claim to be an expert on the scriptures, I was fairly certain that wherever the text she had just quoted was written, it was not the Bible.

"Please, help me! I beg of you! Do not let me be cast out."

"Very well, my child. I shall help you." Veena raised her hands to the ceiling as if in prayer. A minute passed before she turned once more to the weeping woman. "God has heard your pleas and will allow you to make your sacrifice to Him."

The girl who had only a moment ago been weeping was now smiling in ecstasy through shining tears. "Oh thank you, thank you."

Veena embraced the girl, "The Lord forgives you."

Veena drew back and for a moment I could not comprehend what had happened for the motion had been so quick, so fluid, it only seemed as though her arm had passed in front of the girl, Falina, who was still smiling to the crowd as the red line across her neck appeared and grew. Falina fell to the floor, her life spilling out and mingling with that of the lamb.

I stared in horror as Veena lay the bloody knife upon the altar. She turned to the body on the floor, saying, "May you be purified by the sacred blood of the lamb." Then Veena faced the crowd, before her. Were they not as horrified as I? No, I saw no horror on their faces, only reverence. "It is written: There is not a man or woman, who violates the covenants made with their God, that will not be required to pay the debt. The blood of Christ will never wipe that out, your own blood must atone for it; and the judgments of the Almighty will come, sooner of later, and every man or woman will have to atone for breaking their covenants."

"May you remember this and flee from temptation for the evil one will know you are the true servants of the Lord, sent to rid it of its wickedness and prepare His kingdom seat in Munster. The adversary will use every deceit against you to lead you into sin, the sin of apostasy, that which cannot be atoned for but by the shedding of your own blood. If you fear that you are not strong enough to stand against the temptations of the Devil I ask that you would leave now; there is no condemnation in admitting your weakness. It is certainly better that you should admit your weakness than to be led into apostasy and thus be cut down by the sword of the Almighty for the sword of the Lord is bathed in blood, it is covered with fat— the blood of lambs who have been led astray."

She waited. No one made a move.

"Very well then," she said. "It is written: They triumphed over him by the blood of the Lamb and by the word of their testimony; they did not love their lives so much as to shrink from death."

She went to the altar and dipped her fingers in the blood.

"We gather to anoint those who have been called by God to the service of the Lord with the blood of the lamb that is Christ." She moved to the marble plate. "We take this symbol to the world that they might see their sins and repent of their wickedness."

"The circle, to represent the world." She drew a large circle.

"The Chi to represent the Christ and his death upon the cross." She drew the crossing lines of an 'x' with the place where they crossed intersecting with the top of the circle.

"The line to represent the Book of Life." She drew a line across the lower portion of the circle so that an 'A' was formed.

"The 'A' for the Anabaptist traditions the lines of which extend in six directions to represent the six inhabited continents of the world which must be reached. The 'K' and the 'M' to stand for the Kingdom of Munster. And finally the Lamb between them, at the center, to represent Christ on His throne in His Kingdom." She wrote at the top of the plate _Ecce Sanguinem Agni._ "Behold the Blood of the Lamb that cleanses the world of its sins!" she declared.

Her pronouncement was met with great shouts of acclaim.

"Penelope Spanos come forward."

A young Greek woman rose and knelt down before Veena. Veena dipped her fingers in the bowl and made the sign of the cross upon Penelope Spanos's forehead. The kneeling woman looked positively euphoric.

"Penelope Spanos, the Lord has called upon you to deliver the soul of Severiano de Heredia of Paris."

"Dietrich Bernhardt."

I had met Mr. Bernhardt once at supper, he was a muscular man with a over-large jaw that was almost concealed by his beard, a farmer from stock of farmers. Veena drew the same cross in blood on his large forehead.

"Dietrich Bernhardt, the Lord has called you to Bietigheim."

"Eduard VanHooeck."

A tall dutchman rose and knelt.

"Eduard VanHooeck, the Lord has called you to the Sea Sprite which will be docked in Copenhagen harbor when you arrive. You will travel from there to the docks of Hong Kong."

More names were called until a total of six knelt in a line before Veena. Of them, one more had been named an assassin and the other two assigned to Heidelberg and Mylau, respectively.

"And now, my Avenging Angels,"

Georg and Gregory stood before Veena. She made the sign of the cross in blood on their foreheads and whispered something between them I could not hear.

She withdrew from them saying, "May the Lord guide your hands and protect you from harm."

Veena faced the six who remained kneeling before her, "As I have been sent, so now I send you."

She turned once more to the crowd.

"Tomorrow these select among our brothers and sisters shall leave Gerizim and go out led by the banner of the Lord to help prepare His kingdom. For those left behind, do not cease in praying for those who walk in faith into harm's way. Many are the names who have become martyrs for our cause; whom the adversary believed death could defeat. But they will be raised as an army against him on the day of the Lord's return. Go now in peace."

The people began to put on their robes and masks and line up when Veena called out, "Heinrich Menning, if you would remain behind, Mr. Stuart can lead the procession."

Menning bowed his head and stepped from his place in line. "As you wish, Prophetess."

The robed figures processed out, leaving only Krechtinck, Du Beauchene, Menning, Veena, and the body of the unfortunate woman.

"Jan, prepare the sacrifices for the furnace."

Krechtinck bowed, "Yes, Prophetess."

"We shall hold a martyr's funeral for Falina on Friday." She shook her head at the woman, still beautiful even in death, lying prone in the scarlet liquid. "Such a pity." She turned from the body as Krechtinck scooped the fallen Falina up in his massive arms. She looked so like a sleeping child cradled against his broad chest.

"Is everything ready?" Veena directed this question to Du Beauchene.

"Yes, Prophetess." He uttered the title with something akin to disdain.

"Good. Then Heinrich and I will take our leave. Good night and God be with you."

She and Heinrich left the room. I scrambled from the roof back to the ground just in time to see them halfway across the square heading in the direction of Menning's house. I could tell it was close to eleven now. It would be almost a ten after by the time we arrived at Menning's house which would leave precious little time to make the marigold patch if I wished to be on time. Still, I could not waste this opportunity. Roger would have to wait.

I followed behind the pair at some distance. The did not appear to be speaking as they walked; likely for fear they would be overheard. I wished they would walk faster, I could feel the minutes ticking away. Finally, they arrived at Menning's house. I watched outside as a lamp was lit in the main room. Creeping closer to the window, which had been left ajar to allow in the cool night air I was able to overhear their conversation.

"I have heard you have been spending a great deal of time with Miss Underwood," Veena said.

"Yes, and her family."

"But her in particular."

"Yes."

I rose up a bit that I might see. Veena was not in my line of sight, but I could see Menning removing his boots.

"There is talk about town that you intend to propose to her, is this true?"

"It is." Menning stood, facing the unseen woman.

"But she is unbaptized, you know I cannot approve the match."

"I have faith that she will be, in time."

"Just do not let her lead you astray. Remember what happened to the sons of Naomi. Do not forget where your loyalty, where your heart lies."

"Of course not. But she will be baptized-"

"I do not wish to speak of her any further." Veena stepped toward the man and I was shocked to see she had almost entirely disrobed, but for a thin shift which hung loosely off her shoulders. She lightly rested her fingertips on his jaw and slid them down to his chest, laying her palm near the center. She rose slightly and kissed him. Then again. He grasped her waist tightly, pulling her to him. I ducked back below the window. I did not want to see anymore. I could hear muffled words of affection being whispered. I could not bear it! I did not wish to hear any more! To know any further! I ran. Fleeing from the house and the horrible window. Poor Dinah! How she was betrayed! I had to go to her, to tell her! But had she not experienced enough pain? And to what end would I be telling her? She had no intention to be baptized and thus would not be marrying Menning regardless, so would I not simply be causing her terrible pain for no purpose? From within one of the houses I could hear the chimed of a bell. Twelve times. Was it already Midnight?

* * *

I ran all the way to the place where the Marigolds grew. Looking around into the pitch darkness I could see no one. Had I missed him?

"Blast!" I cursed between heavy breaths.

"It is impolite for a woman to say such things," a voice spoke from behind me. I whirled around to see Roger melt out from the blackness.

"James!" I cried, leaping to embrace him in my relief.

He laughed, gently extricating himself, he shook his head, "You are late."

"I know, James I just saw the most terrible things!"

"Shh." he held a finger to his lips.

"James, they intend to assassinate the Mayor of Paris, and a Belgium Official!" The words were rushing from me now.

"Calm down, M. Tell me what you saw from the beginning."

The use of my code name snapped me back into the present. I told Roger all I had seen and heard at the meeting, the things I had seen in Du Beauchene's workshop, about the Mueller brothers, and of Menning's betrayal.

He frowned. "Do you know which bridge it was in the sketches?"

"No, just that it looked like a Roman Aqueduct."

"Then it could not be Heidelberg. But that still leaves Mylau and Bietigheim."

"I'm sorry, I wish I could tell you more."

"You've given me far more than I could have hoped for."

"Have you been able to find anything out about Veena Ernst?"

"I have been working on it. I've been combing through census data but as of yet I haven't found anything. You said you thought she might have lived in an English speaking country for a time?"

"Yes. It is the way she pronounces her words, even her own name. The way she says her V's is somewhat harder, her w's are sometimes pronounced in the English way. Though not on all words. Simple words she speaks correctly, as a child who had learned them by sound, but more complex words she may mispronounce, like she had read them first and guessed at the pronunciation without knowing the rules. She often mentions her time in exile. I think she may have been born in Germany and was, at some point early in her life, forced to move to another country. Further she uses words that are strange."

"In what way?"

"Well, the other day she used the word 'bunkhouse' in place of 'barrack' or 'dormitory'. I've never heard the word before. I honestly took it to be German at first."

"No, that would be English. I can't say where from though. One of the colonies would be my guess. A bunk is often slang for a sleeping berth on a ship so it would figure the word likely came from an English population where the majority would have arrived by ship. Perhaps Australia. If that is the case we may find her name among ship records."

"I think we would do well to look into Monsieur Du Beauchene as well. There is something I find very troubling about that man. I think the Schnaebele incident might possibly have had something to do with him but I can't be sure what, precisely. Anyhow, I should be off, it's getting late."

I turned to leave, when suddenly Roger caught my wrist.

"Mina, I think you should come back to Munster with me tonight."

"What you ask is impossible, they will notice my absence."

"Dinah will cover for you. I'll need your help in identifying the bridge."

"I suppose I could draw a fair approximation of it."

"You know that won't do."

"True."

"Come home with me, Mina." He looked at me imploringly.

"Well, so long as I m back here by tomorrow night, I suppose I could."

"Good then."

"But how will we even get there with only one horse?"

Roger smirked. "You underestimate me. Tarek! Bells!" he called to the darkness.

For a moment I thought him touched when suddenly I heard the slow plod of hooves coming toward us. Where darkness had been only moments ago two of the most beautiful horses I had ever seen appeared.

"Are these..?" I asked reaching reverently out to the large black with a white star on his forehead.

"Arabians? Yes. These are the pride of my stables; the black is Tarek al Malik and the blood bay is The Bells of St. John. Arguably they are the best endurance racing horses in the world. I had to send for them through an old friend, a Baron Von Osterlich by name. He was quite unhappy to have to part with them so soon. Though I promised to loan them to him for stud after the mission is finished."

"They are magnificent."

"I get the sense all I truly had to do to get you to agree to come home was to trot them out in front of you."

"Wait a moment! You expected I would agree all along!"

"Of course."  
"I've half a mind to walk right back to the cabin."

"But you won't."

Oh! How I hated him!

"Which one is mine?" I asked.

"I think Bells would suit you best; Tarek only responds to commands in Arabic."

* * *

The ride was as glorious as it had promised to be, in what seemed no time at all I could see the city lights of Munster in the distance. It was barely after two in the morning when we arrived home. Biddy greeted me at the door, circling around my legs and crying loudly.

"I dare say she missed you," Roger smiled as he stooped down to scratch the cat's fluffy head. "She sleeps on your bed every night. I'll pen the horses, the kettle is on the stove if you want to make some tea."

I walked into the main room and stood stunned at the sight. Where once had been bare walls, now shelves and shelves of books stood. Maps were hung from any place where there was enough surface to put a nail. On the table was a chart showing over a hundred names, all members of the Kingdom of Munster in Munster, arranged in such a way to suggest a hierarchy with description underneath many of them stating where they worked and any of their known family or associates as well as personal information. Large stacks of census records lay on the table with many more piled beside. In fact, at least two bookshelves were filled with census books.

I shifted a few of the papers on the table with my fingers, "You certainly have been busy."

"What? Did you think I was only arranging fake grandmothers and playing with ponies? Sometimes I think you forget I have been doing this for almost thirty years. Did you want any tea?"

"Oh. Yes. Please." I still could not get over all he had done. I had never had the chance to truly work with him before as a partner, never considered what his actual work entailed. I supposed I had just assumed that he was a man of action who just fell into the facts as he went along. I had never considered the amount of work he might put into it. I had always just thought of books and plans as my purview as though it were uncommon (and given the many spies I had known it was). But perhaps this was why he had become such a highly regarded agent, because he was not simply content to let the facts fall where they may and simply react to situations, but to go into them as well prepared as possible.

"I'll have to order copies of the passenger manifests for the major ports, I should be able to do that tomorrow," he said as he set the kettle on the stove. "While we are waiting for the water to boil, would you write down the names, physical descriptions, and assignments each of the six Miss Ernst chose received. I did as was told, trying my best to recall every detail I could.

Roger set my tea down beside me and glanced at the list, "Very good, I'll telegraph the border patrols about Spanos, VanHooeck, Malcolm, and LaVec. I think it would be best if we confronted the bridge bomber ourselves. I don't want to risk alerting him that we may be onto their group. He might abort the mission and tell Miss Ernst of it, or, just as bad, he might panic and detonate the explosives, possibly in a populated area." He walked over to the bookshelf and pulled a large tome from one of the higher shelves. "Here," he said, putting the book in front of me. I could now see it was titled 'German Bridges', "See if you can identify the bridge you saw in the drawing."

I opened the book and began scanning the pages for that one familiar bridge.

* * *

I awoke in the warm morning light wrapped in my blankets, a cool breeze flitting about my eyelashes, Biddy curled up next to me. Feeling my movement she stirred. I gave her soft cheek a gentle caress before noticing I was still in my clothes from the day before. In fact, I had no recollection of going to bed at all. I had been going through a book looking for that arched bridge when I had noticed my eyes drooping. I must have fallen asleep at the table. I smiled. Roger must have carried me in. I made to sit when suddenly I realized I was not alone. Roger was snoozing in a dining chair a few feet from the end of my bed, still dressed in the clothes he was wearing the night before, a novel resting open on his chest.

I turned around in my bed so that I faced him, still lying down, leaning on my elbows like a schoolgirl. "Good morning, James."

He stirred, his eyes blinked open as his hand reached for the book on his chest, "Good morning, Miss Moore."

"Ah Miss Moore! How nice it is to hear my own name spoken!" I exclaimed, turning over onto my back.

He smirked, "Now you understand."

"Understand what exactly?" I teased, regarding him still from my upside-down view.

He stood up, placing the book on the seat of the little wooden chair. He moved until his nose was less than an inch from my own, his eyes met mine, he was not smiling anymore. The atmosphere suddenly felt quite heavy. My heart skipped a beat at how close he was, still, I would not quail but would meet his challenge directly.

"Say my name," he said, his lips so close to mine they were almost touching.

I glanced toward the window, it had been thrown open wide.

"James."

He pulled back with a smirk and gave a shrug, "Good girl, you've been paying attention."

He stretched, "Well, do you think you are awake enough to return to looking for that bridge, or would you like a cup of tea first?"

"If you could put the kettle on," I raised my brows provokingly.

I returned to the table where my have drunk cup of tea sat, gone cold from last night. I sampled it anyhow. Rubbish. I returned to the book and quickly flipped through the pages. The task was much easier now that I had gotten a few hours sleep. I stopped on a page.

"It's this one. I'm certain of it."

Roger came over holding a half-filled cup of tea, "Ah, the Bietigheim Enz Valley Viaduct. Well then, we'd best be off if we want to have any hope of arriving at the station before Mr. Bernhardt does. I'd really prefer if we don't give him a head start," he said, taking a sip of his tea before dumping the remaining contents down the drain.


	24. Chapter 24

We took the early train to Bietigheim and were gratified to learn that Miss Spanos had been stopped at the border crossing into Belgium by train, though I was saddened to learn that rather then be apprehended, she had chosen to ingest the cyanide salts instead. Unfortunately, I imagined the results would be no different with VanHooeck, Malcolm, or LaVec.

"We should wait for Bernhardt at the bridge," I said. "He'll know me in an instant and we can't risk him confronting him in a public place with so many people about. He may choose to blow the train station rather than risk being caught."

"That does complicate the matter. It means he'll have a vested interest in escaping in order to warn the others. It'd be easier if there were a few more of us."

"Do you want to ask the police to assist?"

"No. It is one thing to inform the border patrols of a person of interest who needs to be detained, but I don't want to take the risk that one of the officers might be in league with the Kingdom of Munster and would leak information on you or I back to the cult, or, worse, might inform the cult and then join with Mr. Bernhardt in the attempt to do us in. It's a chance we simply can't afford to take."

"It would probably be best if I wait at the bridge, then," I said, thinking aloud. "We can't chance him seeing me. I assume you intend to watch the station, have you chosen your vantage point?"

"I was thinking that pub just across the way." Roger looked up to the dancing tree branches, taking a deep breath. "It will probably rain tomorrow which means he'll want to act today. The average person won't wish hold onto explosives for long. Did the sketches show what type of explosives he will use?"

"Gelignite."

"So he'll be using detonators, then it will definitely be today. He won't want to risk the rain damaging them."

"Do you think he'll wait till nightfall to plant the explosives?"

"It's possible, but it depends on his purpose. If he wishes to kill people, he'll want to set the explosives as soon as can be managed with the hope of catching a few passenger trains before they can be warned of the bridge being out. If he wishes to disrupt freight, he will come at night."

"Judging by their meeting last night, I would guess the former is their aim."

"I think you are correct in that assessment. The impact of the loss of a day's worth of freight is not half so great as human lives."

"Then at least we shall not have to wait long."

"Still, it will be quite a few hours at the earliest."

"It is no matter, I have a book." I smiled enigmatically as I produced a novel from my bag, the very same he had been reading earlier.

"When did you steal that?" He made a grab for it. I turned my back to him to evade his grasp and opened the book.

"The Trumpet Major; my my you do seem to be a devotee of Mr. Hardy's work."

"And what leads you to that conclusion?"

"When I was in your apartment in Whitehall the book by the chair was Far From the Maddening Crowd, was it not?"

"I'm surprised you remember."

"You hold such a low opinion of me."

"Not at all, my opinion is quite the contrary."

I felt a low heat rise to my cheeks at the unexpected compliment but attempted to hide it, saying haughtily,"And yet such a thing may still surprise you?"

"Even the closest of couples may occasionally be delighted by an unexpected surprise from their companion; that I may be surprised is no measure of my regard. It just seemed such a small thing to take note of I assumed you hadn't."

Even though my face was turned away I was now certain he knew I was blushing for even my ears tingled from the sudden increase in blood flow. "Well, you seem to recall it," I said defensively.

"Of course _I_ would remember! It was so badly damaged from the smoke Mudie's refused to take it back and I was required to pay for it in full."

My face was now aflame with embarrassment. I could feel the heat down to my shoulders. "Well, I suppose I should find myself a good vantage point," I said and began to walk toward the viaduct.

"Wait!" Roger called.

"What is it?"

"We have a few hours, perhaps I might treat you to a late breakfast?"

Had I not already been subject to humiliation enough? Breakfast would be intolerable! "No, thank you. I'd prefer to be settled across the river before I even consider eating and I'm certain I will be able to find a konditeri for a quick bite."

"Cake for breakfast?"

"They sell all manner of baked goods."

"But you intend to have cake."

He knew me far too well. "I could purchase a roll."

He raised a brow as if to inquire whether I seriously thought he would believe such a thing.

"Fine. I intend to have cake. But they are so beautiful and intricate and tiny! Besides, I haven't had a decent pudding in months."

"Don't let me get in the way of your indulgence. Should we agree on a signal?"

I gazed up at the sky, at the moment it was still bright and clear. "The earliest he could arrive is 2pm... which would mean if I were on the West side of the bridge I would be able to see the reflected light of the sun. Perhaps a mirror of some sort?" I pulled out a map and indicated to a road that was diagonal to my intended position. "I should be able to see it from the corner of Im Aurain Strasse."

"I will see what I can find. Here." He handed me his silver pistol. "Be careful."

"Always," I said, receiving the hilt of the gun.

* * *

A few hours later found me comfortably situated on the platform under the eighth arch, tucked away in the cool shadow next to the opening in the center of the support that had served as a convenient door. I had imagined it would be much more difficult to gain access to the heart of the bridge, but now I could see why it had been chosen. It was a rather easy climb, almost no more than a shambling walk really, up a conical brick embankment to the lower level of the bridge. The most difficult part had been negotiating a rather neglected ladder with a box of sweets. To further simplify the matter, once I was on the lower platform each arch possessed an open passage allowing me to readily pass through the arches.

Above me a train rattled by, shaking the entire structure. Dirt and bits of loose coal rained over the sides of the bridge. I brushed off my book and continued to read, taking an exquisite little cake from the box by my side and biting into it. The scent of the river below perfumed the air making it feel cooler than it was. Ah Heaven! Well, perhaps so with a better novel... though the expression on Roger's face when he had seen it in my possession made it worth the effort to plow through the piece which might have otherwise been intolerable. Lovely in bucolic descriptions of the English countryside, that might be the only thing said for it. At least Mr. Oak had been likable enough to be forgiven his choice in women. There was nothing particularly gripping in about these characters: a pretty girl with many suitors who could not make up her mind and when she finally did it was the worser option. I glanced up from my book toward the opposite shore where Im Aurain bent itself into a corner. Nothing yet.

I placed the book down beside me, taking out the little pistol and examining it. Even in the shade it glinted. I pointed it out in front of me as though I meant to shoot, steadying the deceptively heavy device with my other hand. Recalling Georg's instruction I lowered my thumb so it would not be in the path of the hammer. I took aim at a spot on the wall, feeling Georg's hands guiding. I shuddered off the sensation. The memory left an unsettled feeling in the pit of my stomach. Once more I stowed the weapon in my sash. Looking once more at the bend in the road I saw a flash of light followed by three more. Bernhardt was coming.

I quickly spotted the man. He was carrying a large canvas bag protectively under his massive arm. He kept turning his head every which way, though he seemed to be attempting to be inconspicuous about it - an endeavor he was failing at quite miserably for it looked like his head was on a swivel. Behind him I could see Roger following at a distance on a parallel road. It was no great challenge to tail a man when you knew his eventual destination. I quickly stuffed the remainder of cake into my mouth. Seemed a shame there was no time to properly savor it, but better it go to me than the birds. I shoved Roger's novel into my bag and made my way through the passageways, careful to make sure he was looking in the opposite direction before running across the empty expanse between the supports. I was halfway across before he mounted the stone rampart that led to the East entrance of the bridge. Two more arches passed. Here I would wait.

Bernhardt was more preoccupied with climbing the brickwork as quickly as possible that he did not check to be sure he was not being followed, though Roger was hardly fool enough to follow directly behind, instead going around to the other side of the rampart and walking up that way. He made it appear as effortless as though he were on flat ground. I waved to Roger, who only acknowledged the gesture with no return. Bernhardt was on the platform below the tracks now, we were only separated by a few arches. The first charges would be set at the East end, I remembered that from Du Beauchene's sketch. I waited, pistol held at the ready, back against the support wall just next to the passage. I could hear the hollow sound of the heavy man's steps through the empty archways. He was in the archway just next to mine now. He stopped. I could hear him rifling through his bag for the next set of charges.

"Stop right there." I heard Roger's voice from the other side of the wall. There was the sound of the bag briefly scraping the stone and running steps toward my entrance.

I stepped into the doorway, pointing my pistol at Bernhardt. I cocked the gun. "I wouldn't do that if I were you."

He stopped dead, bag still cradled in his arms, staring at me in disbelief. Roger carefully stepped toward the man.

"I know you," Bernhardt said, astonished. "You're one of the newcomers."

I made no sign of confirmation, only stepped forward slowly.

"Drop the bag and put your hands up," Roger commanded.

"How could you betray us?" the large man asked, paying no mind to Roger. "When we welcomed you with open arms!"

"You're talking to me, not to her," Roger said, slowly taking another step forward. "There is no need for you to die here. If you'll just put down the bag we can end this here."

Bernhardt's head turned back and forth from each of us, eyes wide with panic. Suddenly, so quickly I almost did not have time to perceive it happened at all, he looked to me and a villainous smile flitted across his lips, I saw the whites of his eyes flash as he glanced at the edge of the bridge. In that instant I knew what he was about to do, but my body was incapable of reacting fast enough to stop it.

Bernhardt spun on his heel, whipping the bag at Roger. I pulled the trigger just as he lunged at me with only a heartbeat to register the shot ricochet off the stone of the arch I raised my arms to ward against the onrushing man just in time to prevent him from grabbing the whole of me. His large hands closed around my arms squeezing so hard the pistol fell from them. I grappled against him, not even realizing we were falling until we hit the water.

The impact of the water knocked the breath out of me. Above me I could see the light of the sun. I tried to swim to it but was pulled back into the depths by my waist. I was no longer able to consider my situation or even to know what it was I was struggling against in my desperate, insensible need to breath. I kicked furiously against the soft body that held me clawing at what I guessed was its head. He seemed to be fighting to hold me, but it was like trying to forcibly hold an ill-tempered cat. My chest burned within me, screaming for air. My boot struck hard against loose flesh and air bubbles erupted from the man's mouth in a silent howl. He pushed me down as he fought for the surface. I struggled to fight my way to the surface, to follow what little air I still had possessed as it bubbled to the surface, but my waterlogged dress dragged me down. "Her garments, heavy with their drink, pulled the poor wretch from her melodious lay to muddy death", my mind replayed the lines. I was sinking, sinking into the depths. The water burned as it flowed into my nose, my mouth - my lungs now so desperate to be filled they no longer cared as to what it was that filled them. My mind became hazy. I was dimly aware of another splash in the water. I felt a hand grab my wrist and pull me up through the water to the bright shimmering light above.

My head burst through the surface. I coughed violently expelling a flow of water from my mouth. I gulped greedily for air as I felt my body pulled toward shore by a dark form I could neither see properly nor comprehend. I felt myself pulled roughly onto the shore and rolled onto my side where I continued to cough up the remainder of the water in my lungs. Finally satisfied, I rolled onto my back and smiled wanly into the worried face of my rescuer.

"You really must teach me to shoot." I coughed once more, weakly propping myself onto my elbows. He was in his shirtsleeves, his coat probably lying abandoned on the bridge, his hair disheveled and dripping. His expression appeared at war with different emotions fighting for supremacy.

"You infuriating..." Roger embraced me tightly. "I thought I'd lost you."

"You really do worry too much. Did we subdue Bernhardt?"

"In a manner, yes." Roger loosened his grip and I turned to see a large form floating some yards away.

"I really wish they were not so intent on killing themselves, it's terribly troublesome. Anyway, we should be off to Mylau."

"We are not going anywhere. You are going back to Munster. I will go to Mylau."

"Nonsense, you'd be lost without me."

"That is precisely why I am sending you back."

I stared at him, befuddled by this sudden turn toward the cryptic.

He sighed heavily and stood, extending a hand to help me up. "You need to return to the town, Gerizim was it, before they realize you have gone. Take Bells with you. There is a farm two miles West of the horse trail, I have made a bargain with them to look after the horse. You should be able to make the town by midnight if you leave by the next train. There is an artificial eardrum in the third drawer on the left in my desk, I think you may find it useful."

"And when will you teach me to shoot?"

"I will send for you in two weeks time. If you should require to consult me before then, you will have Bells. But I urge you to find out all you can in the mean time. As for your clothes..." He appraised me from sopping tip to toe, "I believe we should make a quick stop at a shop. The train will never allow you on looking like that."

"I'm not certain you are in any place to talk on the matter."

He let out a huff of a laugh at this. "I'll fetch our belongings from the bridge."

"And about Mr. Bernhardt...?"

"Unless you would like to retrieve him, it would probably be best if we left him where he is. It won't be too long before someone notices a body of that size floating in the river. I doubt it is the first suicide they have seen from that bridge."

"No constable in his right mind would declare that a suicide. He's covered in scratches."

"A stranger found in the river with no name or family to speak off, who had clearly assaulted a woman before he drowned but no woman has reported an attack. No constable in his right mind would wish to waste his time on the investigation. Declare it a suicide and be done with it."

"Always the voice of cold reason."

"I can push you back into the river."

"Then you'd have to rescue me again."

"Not if I chose the shallows."

"Horrid man."

He flashed his teeth in a grin. "I'll be back in a minute," he said and was off in the direction of the bridge.

* * *

I stared with my forehead pressed against the window for almost the entire train ride, pondering the events of the day. I was glad to be in dry clothes, even if the style and fit were not to my taste - a simple skirt and blouse that hung from my gaunt form strangely as there had been no time to have them fitted - at least now I would blend in better through my travels. Arriving at the house, I searched the third drawer down on the left until I found the device I was looking for behind a makeshift false back. I slipped it into my bag and changed into the dress I had arrived in, glad I had possessed the foresight to change before we left for it would not have been easy how two days shut up in my room had resulted in new clothing.

Though it was approaching dark, I saddled Bells and made off for Gerizim, arriving at the farm Roger had mentioned by almost ten. I was sorry to part with the fine animal, but not nearly so much as the farmer was glad to gain him (which, I suspected, was in no small part due to his desire to improve his own stock). Borrowing a candle I walked the horse path until I found the mirror, still bound to the tree. I took a deep breath, preparing myself for the darkness, and blew out the light. The walk to the Marigold garden was filled with sounds. Branches breaking from somewhere out in the forest, the howl of some manner of wild dog off in the distance sent a chill through me, from above the queersome cry of an owl startled me. I was glad when I saw the stone border of the garden glowing in the moonlight. From there it was a rather easy task to evade the night watchman.

I smiled when I saw the rain barrel exactly as I had left it, below a window that had been cast wide open. I removed my boots and placed them on the window ledge, then carefully climbed onto the barrel and peeked in over the ledge. Dinah was sleeping soundly in her bed. I attempted to silently enter through the window but accidentally knocked one of my boots over. It rolled off the bed and onto the floor with a dull thud. I held my breath, sure the sound had woken the whole of the household. But no one stirred. I lowered myself down onto the bed and, rescuing my other boot from the ledge, I began to undress. Suddenly a small noise, no louder than a child's sigh arrested my attention. I turned to find Dinah blinking the sleep from her eyes.

"Mina? Is that you?"

"Yes, sorry to return so late."

"We were so worried about you when you didn't return. Especially Quentin."

"I do apologize, if I could have come back to tell you I would have, but there was no time."

"What happened? When I returned to the room you had disappeared."

"Oh Dinah, I followed them to their meeting. It was ghastly! I watched as Veena murdered a woman in cold blood."

Dinah gasped, covering her mouth with her hands.

"It was awful, it seemed Veena had convinced the woman that her soul could not attain Heaven unless she were killed. Dinah, the poor girl was so convinced she actually begged to be murdered. I have never seen such a terrible thing and I hope never to again so long as I live. Then she assigned some of the members to their "missions" as she called them. Assassinations and bombings all of them. Roger and I traveled to Beitigheim to stop them from destroying a particularly large railroad bridge."

"Was Heinrich there? At the meeting, I mean." I could see in her glistening eyes pleading I would not answer in the affirmative. My heart was rent within me, she might lie to all who asked but there could be no doubt she truly loved this Menning fellow. And to have seen him with Veena as I had - to tell her the truth of the matter would crush her so completely. I could not bear it!

"I'm not certain. It was difficult to distinguish them with their hoods on." It was neither a good lie nor convincing, but as she wished to believe it, she did. "Has there been any news since I was away?"

"No."

"We had best get some sleep then."

"You're right. Well, goodnight Mina."

"Goodnight, Dinah."

* * *

I was awoken by an insistent knocking at the door.

"Wake up, wake up," Mr. Bauer called in a cheerful yet urgent tone, "The Prophetess has called an emergency meeting at the main square."

"What's all this about?" I asked Quentin a few minutes later, still rubbing the sleep from my eyes.

"Apparently the Prophetess has had some kind of vision," Quentin whispered back.

"Well, let's not dawdle," Mrs. Bauer said. We followed her through the misty morning fog to the large cleared square that lay before the church.

Veena stood on the steps of the church in her white gown, her hair hung loose about her shoulders, with Heinrich just slightly behind at her right and Krechtinck, in his priestly vestments, at her left. Du Beauchene stood behind regarding the scene darkly. Georg and Gregory were nowhere in sight, undoubtedly still on their mission. I hated knowing that soon a man would be dead simply because of my inability to hear.

Veena spread her arms in a symbol of benevolence and began, "Last night, I was awoken from from my slumber by a vision from the Lord. I saw a great Iron horse running across the Prussian border. Smoke flew from his nostrils and sparks from his hooves as he raced across the countryside over valleys and hills until he came to a bridge with great arches rising over black water. Suddenly great plumes of flame rose from the bridge. Sparks rained down with death. Death born of fire and iron twisting into the water. The great horse sank into the river and perished. The Lord Christ appeared and spoke unto me, 'There will be a great cry from the South. How I longed to gather them under my wings as a hen gathers her chicks but they would not listen! They put their faith in machines and used them to travel to heathen lands. To the great sparkling city of sin, that place where they, even now, are building their very own tower to the heavens as in the days of Babel, ruled over by that lord of perdition, that child of Cain and Laman. But his reign I will put to an end. In the streets of Paris a wail will rise as the one of the beast's heads is cut off.'" Veena raised her arms.

"Then the Lord said unto me, 'Follow me, Daughter of Man.' I followed him along the plum blossom scented river to a city of great and terrible factories, black as jet yet their hearts aflame. Their smokestacks belched thick smoke, but instead of being black it was ghostly white with a fragrance of flowers. I saw poor men and women breathing in the smoke which caused them to lose their senses. They staggered to the rivers edge and fell in, drowning, unable to save themselves while wealthy men watched them from the factory windows and laughed. Then the Lord said unto me 'I will punish those who have sold their souls and the lives of their fellow man to the god Mammon. I will raze their factories and ports to the ground. Not a stone shall stand to bear them witness. I shall smite the wicked from the earth!' Then He said to me, 'Go, and tell what you have seen to the faithful that they might see my works and know that I am Lord.'"

"She certainly has a flare for the dramatic," Quentin whispered. "Any idea what that means?"

"Yes, but it will have to wait until later. There are too many who might overhear. Perhaps, after breakfast we might go for a walk."

* * *

Quentin followed me to the Marigold garden; a place I felt we might be safe from prying ears. He looked admiringly at the strange little plot.

"Hmmm, merrily," he said.

"What is that?"

"Merrily. It's carved into that brick in the back."

I walked over to the other side that abutted a large tree. There, carved into the center brick, in the King's English was the word 'Merrily'. "Strange, I never noticed that before. I wonder what the purpose of it could be?"

"Perhaps it was merely on the brick."

I gave him a half smile, arching a brow.

"You're right," he conceded. "I imagine the chance that an English word would be found on a brick in a German brickyard is rather remote. So what did Veena's vision mean, do you think?"

"Two nights ago I managed to witness the Sanguinem Agni meeting."

"How- I'm not even going to ask. I imagine it involved you doing something dangerous."

I shrugged with a smile.

"Of course," he said. "My bride who repels down piers, diffuses bombs, and runs along rooftops."

"That's actually quite a good guess."

He frowned slightly, more in jest than earnest. "So about the vision?"

"Well, during the meeting, Miss Ernst assigned a number of her followers to various tasks. One was to assassinate the Mayor of Paris - I imagine that was her lord of Perdition, though I do not understand what she could mean by child of Cain and Laman."

Quentin sighed heavily, "There are certain traditions in some churches that hold that the dark skin of Africans was a punishment from God to mark them as being from the line of Cain. It is a distasteful belief, but, unfortunately, still all too common. As for Laman, I could not guess. The only Laman of note I know of was the father of Rachael and Leah. A crooked man. Perhaps she means to indict him as a cheat."

"Another was to blow up the Bietigheim railway bridge, that would be the Iron Horse. Another was being sent to Hong Kong, so that would be the tea colored water that smelt of plum blossoms and the white smoke would probably be opium. I imagine the factories with their hearts aflame would mean they intend to set fire to factories in Mylau for that is where the final man was sent who was not assigned to murder. The other assassinations must be low profile people for they were not mentioned which means their deaths would not be likely to make the national news. She will probably use newspaper reports to prove her prophecies have come to pass thus encouraging her followers to put their faith in her further. Though this time her prophecies will come to naught."

"What do you mean? Am I to assume this is where you disappeared to?"

"Well, I couldn't very well let James have all the fun."

Quentin pulled me close and kissed my forehead. "My bride who repels down piers, diffuses bombs, and runs along rooftops," he repeated affectionately.


	25. Chapter 25

That afternoon I walked to Du Beauchene's workshop. While we had successfully delayed The Kingdom of Munster in their designs against the wickedness of the earth; There could be no guarantee that failure would stymie Veena's plots. The events of the previous days had only enforced how necessary it was to tend my association with Du Beauchene. Though, to be sure, some of my eagerness was related to my desire to not associate with anyone in the village. The sight of Mr. Bernhardt's body still floated in my mind. It was difficult to wish to commune with those who had once been his friends and loved ones knowing full well that I had caused his death. Not that I felt I had killed him - certainly it was not I who might be blamed for it. I almost felt guilty that I did not own more remorse for his death, but what might I have done? Save drown like a good girl? And certainly I could not acquiesce to that.

I knocked on the door.

"Who is it?"

"Miss Kepler."

"Come in."

I was surprised for Du Beauchene greeted me at the door. Even though the day was cool and he only in his shirtsleeves and vest, he was covered in a thin sheen of sweat and dirt. His expression was as hard as ever, but in his eyes shone sympathy, "I was not expecting you today. I am sorry to hear about your grandmother."

"Thank you, Monsieur Du Beauchene. It does my heart good to hear you say that. But I cannot bear to be any longer in my room without occupation. I was hoping I might find something here to distract me."

He allowed a sardonic smile to crack his features, "I am certain something can be found that you might occupy your time with. Would you be opposed to assisting me with the saltpetre preparation? It is long and tedious work, I warn you."

"That sounds like just the thing. Thank you."

"I expect you shall not thank me for long."

Du Beauchene put me to the task of preparing saltpetre, setting me at a stool next to a large cooling vat and instructing me to stir until the saltpetre flour had been deposited while he worked at the fire, stirring a large vat and occasionally scraping off scum from the top. Beside him was a bucket of thick red liquid which he occasionally added to the vat.

"What is that?" I asked, not certain it was a question I wished to hear the answer to recalling the lamb and the young woman who had lain in a similarly shaded pool.

"Cow's blood. We bleed a few of the bulls at a time. It doesn't especially hurt the animal. Glue is more effective, but at the cost of an animal. So we don't typically make it unless one dies and then it has more pressing purposes. where it cannot so easily be supplanted. Mind the pot."

I hadn't even realized I had ceased to stir as I listened. Embarrassed, I quickly set back to work. "Sorry, I didn't mean get so distracted."

"There is no harm in it. It is flattering to know my words hold such sway."

I did not answer but continued to stir.

A few minutes passed before Du Beauchene spoke again, "What did you think of the book?"

"I liked it very much. Dom Lorenzo has quite a way with words, it felt far more accessible to the common man than the previous work."

"Ah that is the challenge. Though there are some who do intentionally write their works in such a lofty manner as to wholly exclude the common man that only the select might comprehend their supposed genius; I say it is one who truly understands the meaning of his faith who writes in a more simple manner so that anyone, upon reading or hearing his words might, at least partially, comprehend them and thus grow closer to God."

"You sound like a preacher."

Du Beauchene smiled enigmatically. We continued to discuss the book until the sun had begun its descent to its bed behind the mountains. In the distance, I could hear the faint ringing of the dinner bell. I left with the promise that I would return again tomorrow.

The day went much as the first had, though this time with the preparation of the saltpetre flour. An ardous task to be sure, but the company made it a rather pleasant thing.

"I have been wondering, how long have you lived in Gerizim?"

"I first arrived when it founded, twenty years ago."

"You have lived here since it first began? But you cannot be more than forty."

"Yes, I was a young man then."

"You were a scholar before then?"

"In a manner of speaking. I believe I hear the dinner bell."

I did not hear the bell but took his words as a sign he wished to abandon the topic.

"There is a book by Erasmus in the library. I think you might enjoy it."

And in this way I passed the next few days until Wednesday brought the afternoon return of the Mueller brothers as well as four other men I had not seen before. Rachael had attached herself to a particularly handsome spare young man with blond hair and almond shaped eyes from the quartet at supper but he appeared more polite than interested in her attentions. As I was eating supper I noticed one of the men walk off behind the building (since they were the only new people seen in quite a while it was hard not to notice their actions) a few minutes later Du Beauchene followed him. The pair returned after a short while though coming from different sides of the building. As Du Beauchene returned to his position he fixed me with a pointed stare. I felt a chill down the back of my neck.

As supper concluded, Veena rose from her position at the head table. A hush fell over the crowd. "My children, there will be no celebrations tonight. Nor will there be any for the next week. I have terrible news, but even this will not be as terrible as the proclamation I have received from God. But first I must tell you, Penelope Spanos, Deitrich Bernhardt, Eduard Van Hooeck, Paul Calvin, Frederich Eck, and Helena Troyer were martyred while serving as the Lord's missionaries this week."

A gasp rose from the crowd. A woman screamed and ran weeping from the tent while another fainted. A man bellowed like an ox, pounding on the table, causing plates to fall to the ground and shatter as large tears bubbled down his face. It was horrible to see. Veena waited as Mr. Bauer led the man away that he might mourn in private.

"We will hold a memorial service for our fallen saints tomorrow afternoon. No work shall be done tomorrow. We shall all fast and pray the whole of the day. I have spent this afternoon imploring the Lord what reason He might have to allow such a terrible fate to befall His children who had been willing to lay their lives down that we might prepare the world for His return. And the Lord spoke unto me saying, 'This is my divine judgment for allowing sin and wickedness to enter into this village. There are those who walk among you who have been baptized in my name but have then gone on to sell their very souls to the adversary. They are not children of the covenant but of the curse. They have betrayed me in their thoughts and in their words. They have conspired to bring my people to ruin in the hope that the coming of the Kingdom might be delayed. This is my message to the people of Gerizim: Repent that you might be spared eternal damnation! Repent that you may spare Gerizim from further judgment!' My children, if there is a sin you have entertained in secret I ask that you would come forward that you might be forgiven."

A number of men, women and children rose from their seats and came forward.

"Kneel my children and pray for God's forgiveness."

I could hear the sound of fervently mumbled prayers rising from the group.

After almost ten minutes of this spectacle, Veena raised her hands to the sky, "My children your sins are forgiven. Draw on your foreheads a cross of ash that we might know to pray for you to remain strong in the battle ahead."

The people who knelt looked visibly relieved at her pronouncement.

"However, the Lord has also given me a warning: There are among us those who has made a pact with the Devil. Who refuse to come before the throne of God that they might be redeemed. These people have allowed their hearts to become corrupted by the wickedness of the world. They will not be easily rooted from the children of God. They are not people who are new to us, but those who have been with us long enough that we might know them, even trust them, as our brothers. But they are no longer our brothers. They have betrayed our family. We must be ever vigilant. If you see a neighbor or even a loved one who is acting suspiciously, in a way that might suggest they are keeping secrets or attempting to gather information for which to betray us with to the adversary (for we know God has placed His hand of protection over Gerizim and the Devil, who cannot enter our village, might only learn of our plans if told from someone within by his agents) please report that poor deceived child to the High Priest of myself, for the sake of their eternal soul, that they might be spared eternal damnation. As in the days of Ai, the Lord has allowed us to perform this task of rooting out the evil that we might prove ourselves faithful to Him. Go with God."

She returned to her seat. No one spoke a word as they shuffled off to their homes, but for Rachael who caught up with us.

"Dinah, can you believe there might be a servant of Satan in our midst?" she said a bit too loudly.

Mrs. Bauer shot her a withering look. "Rachael, show some respect!"

"My apologies, Mrs. Bauer. Still," she continued, now in a conspiratorial whisper, "it gives me the shivers to think there is one among us who might very well be going off to commune with the agents of the devil at this moment."

"Yes, it is quite a terrible thought," Dinah said. "I suppose we must do as the Prophetess says and remain vigilant."

"By the way, who is your new friend?" I asked.

Rachael blushed, "His name is Mikhail, apparently he is a friend Georg and Gregory brought back with them. Don't you think he is handsome?"

"He is not to my taste," I answered, recalling the slight, fair young man. "but he would certainly qualify for that title."

"He's Russian, you know."

"I gathered that from his name and appearance."

"Russians are very exotic, don't you think?"

She prattled on and on about Mikhail and Russia and how he would be joining the stables as a groom and how very romantic that somehow was until we were almost at the door.

"Rachael, don't you think it is about time you went to your own home? You and the girls can talk more tomorrow." Mrs. Bauer said.

"Yes, Mrs. Bauer."

As Rachael disappeared into the dark Mrs. Bauer watched her, shaking her head, "She's a good girl, Rachael is, but she does tend to get a bit caught up in her conversations."

The following day marked the memorial service. As most people owned only a few pairs of identical clothes there was no special variation for funerals. The service itself was a somber affair. With no bodies to bury, the High Priest instead presented boxes of their clothing to be buried in small pits. Wooden boards, nailed together and fashioned with cambered tops, with the names of those lost carved on followed by the dates of their births and deaths (as near as the could approximate, John Calvin did not have a birth date at all - his family must have been too poor to observe such a frivolous thing - and Penelope Spanos only had a birth year recorded, 1868, she had only been nineteen years old.) and marked by a cross. As the people slowly left the ceremony I picked through the cemetery grounds looking at the other graves. Many were weathered and grey.

There were three, near the back, Ethel, Marcus, and Luke Rosendorf all dated as having died in June of 1868, Luke only having attained the age of four months at the time of his death. The only bodies buried in the cemetery, Du Beauchene had said. Tobias Keller stood beside them an old man of sixty-four. Mary Elaine Denny his companion at only twenty-two. In front of them more names, Kristoph Bauer, twenty-five. I wondered if he might be related to the Bauers I now stayed with. Though it was a common name. I noticed not all the graves had crosses, in fact very few did. Suddenly I was struck by a grave, tucked near the middle of the cemetery where it might easily be missed by the casual visitor, was a weathered grave with the name Marigold Lee carved into the wood. There was no cross on her grave, only the dates March 20, 1864 - May 6, 1884. Could this be Veena's prodigal daughter? Rachael had said she was buried in the cemetery. But the name "Lee" didn't follow, Veena had said her family name was "Ernst". Lee was an English name, certainly not German. I quickly walked through the graves but found no other Marigolds, Ernst or otherwise. Perhaps there was a reason for the different family name, but this had to be her. I returned to the grave and examined it once more. Given the dates the girl would have been twenty when she left the village. She would be twenty four now. Which would mean she had been born four years before Gerizim was founded! That would mean there must be some record of her somewhere! All we would have to do was find Marigold Lee and we would be able to find Veena.

That evening I noticed almost a dozen more men and two women I had never before seen at supper.

The next morning I returned to Du Beauchene's workshop. I knocked at the door but received no response. Carefully, I opened the door and walked into the dingy building. I found him at his desk, his head cradled in his hands surrounded by sketches of everything from large vats to city bridges to harbor piers.

"Monsieur Du Beauchene?"

He did not respond, he did not even stir. His breathing came slow and even. I titled to one side that I might see his face. His eyes were closed. He appeared exhausted. He must have fallen asleep. Had he been working all night?

"Monsieur Du Beauchene?" I tried again, placing a hand lightly on his shoulder.

He jolted awake grabbing my hand painfully.

"Monsieur Du Beauchene!"

"Oh, it is just you," he said, loosening his grip although not entirely releasing it. "I'm sorry."

"It there anything I might assist you with today?"

"You might keep me company, that I don't fall asleep again." He gently pulled me over beside him by my captive hand. There was something in the motion, in the speaking of the words and the softened expression of his face, that felt almost painfully intimate. As though he were pulling me in to his very self. As though he were able to. I stood only inches from where he worked, close enough that he had to adjust the position of his elbow that it did not strike me. Yet, when I attempted to move he only took my hand and guided me back to my place beside the drawing board. The atmosphere felt strangely heavy, as though a violent storm were approaching. I had known few tempests but the same weird anxiety that often accompanied them now settled in my stomach.

He spoke few words, leaving me to attempt to prattle on, but quickly failing on each subject I tried for lack of response. Finally, as noontime drew near, I lapsed into silence.

"You need not worry about conversing, your presence is more than enough."

The tension in my stomach grew, now tickling like an itch impossible to scratch.

"Could you fetch a pencil for me, there is a box on the third shelf."

I went to fetch the asked for item down the short, makeshift hall between the shelves. As my back was turned I could hear the scrape of his chair as he stood and spoke again, "Oh and might you fix a cup of coffee for me as well, Miss Moore."

I froze, the blood seemed to become ice in my veins. I knew there was nowhere I could run. My eyes darted to the shelves in hopes of finding something I might use to fend him off, but even now I knew it would be to no avail. He had planned this moment, he would be ready. Despite his lightness of step I knew he was directly behind me.

"So the report is true." His warm breath tickled my ear. I felt his long, spidery fingers wrap around my shoulders. "Don't worry, I won't tell her."

"Why not?" I managed to stammer.

"The burden of traveling with a title is quite a heavy one. I can understand why you would choose to conceal it when a German name would open far more doors and create far less risk of danger. Kepler is your mother's maiden name, correct?"

"Yes. But how did you find out?"

"Veena may be lax in checking the background of her converts, content to trust her own judgement, but I am far less so. I requested one of my men to look into Mr. and Miss Underhill, and, as a matter of consequence, you. Imagine my surprise to learn that you were of the noble class."

"I imagine you were not surprised in the slightest. You have suspected it from the first. If anything, you were surprised that I was truly engaged to a man of the cloth."

He brushed around to my side so that I was now able to see his face. He wore an oily smile as he looked me over. "Very perceptive Miss Moore."

"So that was what your meeting yesterday at supper was regarding?"

"So you were watching." His gaze softened slightly. For a moment he appeared almost a decade younger, as though a great weight had lifted from his brow.

"You said you would not tell the Prophetess, why?"

At the mention of Veena's title disgust flashed across Du Beauchene's face. "Perhaps I do not want to risk that she might use your connections and fortune for her own purposes. Or perhaps I merely want something that only belongs to you and I."

"But are you not afraid your man will tell her?"

"No. There is a contingent in this village who are loyal to me and me alone. They have become disillusioned by Veena and her prophecies. They would not betray your secret."But if they do not believe, why do they remain?"

He smiled as one might at a precocious, yet terribly naive child.

"There is still much for you to learn, Miss Moore, but today is not the day to teach you. Perhaps, after lunch, we might rinse the saltpetre flour."

Following a rather spare lunch (as consequence of the order to fast there was little food available, still, out of the little he had from breakfast he shared it with me) we began to work the saltpetre flour into its purer form. Du Beauchene had dropped any pretense and now I found him almost constantly watching me with great interest.

"I suppose we should be off to supper," I said, rinsing off the last of the saltpetre flour.

"Before you go-" Du Beauchene retreated into his room, returning with a small book clothed in threadbare red cloth, so thin in places the cardboard had begun to show through at the corners and the edges.

"You have a book?" I was almost stunned to see the little thing, wholly free from the confines of the shelves and banisters and that horrid thin man with the glasses who sat perched above, watching like a hawk.

"Just a small collection of the poetry of Baudelaire I was able to conceal. Poetry is too much a part of the owner's soul to be placed upon the dusty shelves of a library. I ask that you will read it. Not that we may discuss it, but that I might share something of the deepest part of my soul with one who might appreciate it."

I colored. Taking the small book I slipped it into my bag and left without another word.

* * *

At supper it seemed we were now overrun by strangers with at least fifty people I had never before seen.

I pulled Dinah aside as we walked back to the Bauer's house. Once I was certain we were out of earshot of the Bauers, I whispered, "Dinah, has Menning mentioned anything to you about these new people?"

"No, and it is not for want of my asking. But he simply dismisses the question. Mrs. Bauer tells me we may soon have a few guests staying with us but when I inquired as to why she only said they were old friends returned from their missions."

"If that were the case then why do they need to board with us? Where is there even space for them?"

"Apparently they will be staying in the shed, Mr. Bauer has been building bunks for them. I'd guess half a dozen."

"How have I not noticed this?"

"You have left early almost every morning and not returned until the first stars are out; I'm not certain how you could have learned of it."

"I am sorry to have left you and Quentin alone so much."

"It is better that you do, I think. We might appear more suspicious were we always together. As it is, Heinrich tells me Veena is very pleased that we seem to be integrating well into the community. Though both she and Heinrich have expressed some trepidation that you have lately taken to spending so much time with Monsieur Du Beauchene."

"From what I have come to understand their trepidation is valid. Du Beauchene may be in the employ of Miss Ernst, but he is not her man."

"Then what is he?"

"That I do not know, precisely."

"What do you mean?"

"If someone were to tell me he were Lucifer in the flesh I would be inclined to believe them, but, just the same, if they were to tell me he was a victim of forces beyond his control I would be just as inclined to believe that depending on the moment. I simply do not know what to make of him or what his intentions are."

"Do you think he would tell you who these people are if you were to ask?"

"I think he would not tell me the time, if my not knowing suited him. And even if he did, I certainly could not trust the answer."

"I wonder, would the Mueller brothers be inclined to talk about such things openly?"

I shook my head, doubtfully.

Dinah stopped in her tracks, "Of course! How could I now think of it before!"

"What is it?"

"Rachael, of course! If anyone would know anything it would be her."

"Of course! She never ceases to investigate something until she has rooted out every possible object of gossip."

"Which she is then only too happy to share."

"We should speak with her tomorrow."

"Won't Monsieur Du Beauchene mind if you don't assist him?"

"No, in fact, I think he would prefer if I stayed away tomorrow."

"Why is that?"

"It is just the sense I got when we said goodbye." I could not tell her about the little book of poetry. It felt too personal a thing to be shared. He would not want me to return tomorrow because that would mean I had not taken the time to appreciate his gift, to digest it for every thing it represented. The trust, the confidence that I would not reveal him in his rebellion, the feeling of finding a kindred soul after so long in isolation. To tell would be as though I were exposing the man, naked, to the world against his consent. "Should we call on Rachael at home tomorrow or will she be at the knitting circle?"

"Neither, I believe. Lately she has taken to spending her time around the stables. She claims she is interested in learning to ride, for her health. But she has confided that it is the eye of one of the grooms that actually holds her interest."

"Ah yes, the Russian, I believe. Michael was it?"

"Mikhail."

"Tomorrow seems a fine day for a ride, wouldn't you agree?"

Dinah smiled.

* * *

All morning we watched new people arriving by the horse trail through the forest. At first it had only been a few at a time, some alone and some in scattered groups, but now there was a steady flow. Much of the town had turned up simply to watch as the people poured in, Dinah, Mrs. Bauer, and I among them. Quentin was unable to join us, having been conscripted, with Georg and Gregory, by Mr. Bauer to help finish the berths. Many of the men and women greeted Mrs. Bauer with embraces and fond words, inquiring as to her health and her husband. The whole mood was one of elation rather than sobriety. It seemed many of these people were known to the villagers, a number appeared to even be spouses and relatives. Among the crowd I saw the familiar faces of Mr. Ackermann and Mr Kaiser and waved. He ignored me, but Mr. Kaiser appeared genuinely glad to see us and returned the greeting. As the morning moved on I decided it was time to put our plan into action. Dinah and I excused ourselves citing that we did not wish to delay any longer for fear of straining the horses in the heat of the day.

We found Rachael leaning over the wall of an empty stall watching the Russian working a rather large horse's hooves with a pick, prattling on about how very interesting cleaning hooves was though it was clear she, herself, did not believe her own words.

"Rachael!" Dinah hailed. "How very fortunate to find you here! Mina and I were planning to go riding, would you like to join us?"

Startled by Dinah's call, the horse shook its hoof free from Mikhail's grasp and the Russian had to once more fight it back into position.

"I would love to but I was just keeping Mikhail company and I would hate to leave him."

"No, I don't mind. Go riding with your friends. I have plenty of work to do here," he said in his thickly accented voice looking positively relieved that he might be able to do his chores unobserved.

We chose three fine ponies and set about the fields at a pleasant walk.

"Isn't his accent lovely? And those eyes! He's part Siberian, you know."

"How very interesting," I said, not interested in the least. "You said Georg and Gregory brought him back from Russia?"

"Yes, apparently he used to live here a few years ago, but the Prophetess sent him on a mission to St. Petersburg where he has worked spreading the good news of Christ's coming Kingdom." Well, at least now we knew where the Mueller brothers had been; likely completing the mission Falina had failed.

"Why did they bring him back? Is he no longer going to be serving as a missionary?"

Rachael regarded us queerly, as though she had believed us a good deal smarter that such a question proved. "The Prophetess has called back all the missionaries. Have you not heard?"

"No, I'm afraid not. Do you know why?"

"No, but she must have a good reason. She hasn't called in so many since February last. And even then it was not all. Won't Mr. Snyder be in for a surprise! He's been on mission in Paris since February."

"I don't follow...?"

"Mrs. Snyder took to spending a lot of time visiting the Mr. Orr the baker at the bakery. She said it was to learn how to bake better but between us, I think they have a bun in the oven."

"She's with child?" Dinah looked horrified.

"Of course no one cares, they tell me to stop talking about it, but it's so very scandalous is it not? Mr. Snyder won't be happy at all."

"They are right to tell you not to speak of such matters. You should not spread idle gossip regarding the affairs of married couples," Dinah chastised the young woman who appeared positively crestfallen.

"Rachael," I said, hoping to distract the young woman from her embarrassment, "I was wondering, do you know anything about the Prophetess's time in exile? Or how she came to be called as a prophet?"

Rachael shook her head, "Only the little I have heard from her prophecies."

"Do you think she might tell us if we were to ask? I know it might help us to put our faith in her were we to know her testimony," Dinah said.

"Perhaps... I know we are not to speak of it with outsiders, but maybe if I came with you and asked on your behalf, explaining the reason, she might tell us."

* * *

We found Veena at the main square, watching as a new tent was being added to the pavilion, doubling its size.

"Prophetess?" Rachael began.

"Yes my lambs?" Veena turned, her expression serene though her eyes betrayed some irritation at the interruption.

"We don't mean to be a bother, but if you have a moment might we ask you a question?"

"It is no bother at all, I will answer if I am able, though there are some things only known between the Lord and I that may not be shared at this time."

"Miss Underwood and Miss Kepler were wondering about your call to be God's prophet on earth; and I had to admit I did not know the story myself, so we decided to ask you."

Veena gave Rachael's shoulder a gentle pat, "As you were right to do, for it would not do for these lambs to be accidentally led astray were the account to be given improperly. Let us sit and I shall tell you all." She gestured to a pair of benches that sat in the sun, awaiting the new tent to be finished.

"I was only a child, a girl of seven, when I was exiled to the wilderness, the the lands that had once harbored Eden but now were cursed by his sin. That curse infected the ground and all who lived upon it; making the people hard and cruel. I was sold into the care of a foul tempered man and wife. There was no love of God in them and they treated me as less than a slave, often lamented that they could not afford a slave, and so took me instead. I was forced to work from dawn until dusk. Then, one day, when I had been made to fetch nails from the blacksmith's forage some miles away. It was there that the great Prophet of the Lord appeared before me on his steed, a great satchel of books were slung around his chest. Condescending to such a little child as me, he asked if I might give him some water for he was parched from riding. I knew him for what he was at that very moment. Hurriedly I grabbed a bucket and dipped it in the trough for him. He drank and was satisfied and said to me, 'My girl, do you know the Lord, God?' I shook my head, for I did not know more than any child does at such a young age. "That is of little matter child, for he knows you and he has sent me this way to give you a message.' He reached into his waistcoat and handed me a pamphlet entitled The Angel of the Prairies. I knew he had given this as a message to me to identify who he truly was, a Prophet of God sent be an Angel to bring God's message to the land. Then he rode off. He had only crested the hill when suddenly the agents of the devil were upon him. Two there were, and darkness followed them. The prophet turned from the road, followed by his pursuer. They shot at him but the Lord's hand was upon him and the bullets only bounced off of him. Then Satan entered the body of the lead man, giving he and his horse supernatural speed. He caught up with the prophet and felled him with one great blow from his knife. I watched as Satan, not satisfied that he might have killed the prophet, approached him and stabbed him again and again until he lay still. The blacksmith and another man carried the body of the prophet back into the house where I was forbidden to follow. On the ground lay the prophet's satchel, covered in his holy blood. I took the satchel home with me and hid it, that I might read, in secret, what God had intended for me."

"But the adversary was not so blind that he did not realize what God had done. That night while I read, he alerted my godless caretaker to my activities. When he saw the satchel and the books he cast them into the fire. I was too late to save them. I heard Satan laugh with delight as the pages burned while my caretaker held me back. But I broke free of him and from the fire managed to save a single verse, the message God had intended for me He had spared long enough that I might read it before it was consumed. Upon the scrap was written 'And thou, child, shalt be called the prophet of the Highest: for thou shalt go before the face of the Lord to prepare his ways;'. From that moment I knew that the reason God had allowed the prophet to die was because He had transferred the gift of his prophecy to me in that moment at the trough. He had tested me and found me worthy to be the voice for his word. And to always remind me of that moment, he left the marks on my hands from the fire, the very hands were I watched His message disintegrate into my flesh."

Veena held out her hands, the flesh of the palms knotted and strange.

"The man and his wife, knowing that they had failed in their mission to prevent me from learning my true calling, gave me to the first family that would have me that were traveling through the region. Little did they know God had orchestrated this meeting as well. The family were kindly, God-fearing people, they taught me the simple truths of Anabaptism and the Apostolic church. They revealed to me that when the Lord came to usher in the millineum His throne would be in Munster, where He would rule over those who had followed him loyally for a thousand years.

I remained with them until I was fifteen when the Lord sent a missionary from the prophet's church to me. I followed him to their city in the desert where the great temple stood just as the Angel of the Prairie had said. But I quickly came to find that, while they possessed some measure of the truth, as it was with Israel, in the absence of the prophet it had been corrupted by men and their sinful, greedy ways. They cared more for satisfying their lusts than satisfying the Lord and the Holy Spirit was not among them. They were blind to prophecy, not just blind, but willfully so! They shut their eyes to it! Blocked their ears from it! They were determined that it should not be heard. The missionary, who knew me for what I was, a prophetess called of God, finally was corrupted by their sinful ways. It pained me greatly, but through the strength of God's love for him, I was able to deliver the missionary's soul, not just him but his entire family but at the cost that I must never return to the village for there could be no salvation for the people there. They had ransomed their souls to the adversary."

She shook her head sadly.

"I returned to the place I had originally come from and God granted me provision that I might be borne across the sea to spread His message in my homeland. Which is where God tested me once more, that I must wholly abandon my father and mother and truly follow Him, alone. This test well passed I began my ministry in earnest. God has blessed me with many open ears and hearts and has grown His kingdom immensely since that time. I consider myself blessed beyond all measure that He has chosen me as the shepherd for His flock. Does that answer your question?"

Dinah and I nodded but Rachael stared with rapt attention at Veena, unable to speak.

"Well, my lambs, I must be returning to the work. I wish you a blessed afternoon."

"Thank you, prophetess," Dinah said with a nod.

Rachael was positively in raptures about the prophetess, talking almost without ceasing about the great testament we had heard. We parted ways at the path to the stables for she wished not to delay a moment in telling Mikhail what she had heard.

I turned to Dinah, "So what did you think of the Prophetess's Tale?"

Dinah regarded me with alarm still in her eyes, "I think she is completely mad."


	26. Chapter 26

Upon his return on Tuesday, Menning supplied a letter from my grandmother to me despite only a week having passed. There had been no attempt to conceal that the letter had been opened and read but upon this fact I made no comment, much to Menning's visible relief. The letter contained within the tragic news that my grandmother had taken a turn for the worst and the doctor had given her less than a month to live. She begged that I might come to visit for she could not bear the thought that she might never see me, her dearest grandchild, ever again in this life. She was so weak she was unable to draw more than three flowers at the top of the page and even those were shaky (for there was no need for use of a secret code at this moment except that it might maintain the facade).

Upon reading this message I burst into tears, recalling to mind the plaintive cries of Freddie at his mother's funeral that the effect might bear the ring of truth. The thought, still a raw wound, proved so effective I was unable to stop weeping even when comforted in the arms of my fiance and I was taken to my room, inconsolable. Apparently, the display had been so effective a number of our acquaintances called to inquire as to my well-being, including, I was surprised to discover, Monsieur Du Beauchene, who never left the workshop for any reason but that it were required of him. Given my state of prolonged agitation, it was eventually decided that Menning should take me to Munster the following day for fear that if any delay were exercised I might work myself into a fit. The following morning was too rainy for travel, but by afternoon it had cleared enough that the journey might be chanced. We were offered a cart, but I declined claiming that I was well enough for a prolonged ride and the occupation might clear my mind. We were given a pretty pair of warmbloods (probably rottalers though my familiarity with the breed is scant enough to leave me uncertain) for the journey.

And long it was! Menning did not wish me to strain myself and thus held us at an ambling gait for much of the ride. We were approaching our fourth hour on horseback by the time Munster came into view. My grandmother's maid greeted me at the door and my grandmother, so very glad to see me well, managed to stagger from her bed and embrace me. She then invited Menning to stay for supper, but he declined, for it was already late and he still had a few miles more before he would reach the Kaiser's farm. He promised he would return on Saturday to bring me back to the village. From the door we waved him off until he had disappeared over the hill.

"Mr. Harriman asked me to give you his regards," the old lady said with a wink.

"Tell him I am eternally grateful for all of his help," I answered, saddling the horse I had only just unsaddled.

"Nonsense! If it wasn't for your bravery I would not have my grand-nephew at all. It is the least we can do. And please thank Mr. Bond for the tea cakes, they were delicious. He really is such a good man. He never ceases to thank me either. All for lying in bed and taking the occasional visitor! And for all he does for us. He fixed the leak in the roof just the other week and he never misses a Sunday dinner. It's as though I have a second son, but this one does not live in Berlin." She laughed.

I smiled as I thought of Roger performing the duties of a doting son. "Yes. I will tell him."

"Now off with you while you still have the light. I know he is impatient to see you." She gave the horse a slap on the hindquarters and we were off.

The ride to our cottage was thankfully short and quickly accomplished now that I was allowed to ride at a more reasonable pace. I saw Roger in his shirtsleeves, waistcoat hanging loose, working on something out in the yard. It was quite tall. Coming closer I could see it was an ancient plank door upon which was painted the outline of a man that he was nailing to a post.

"James, what _are_ you doing?" I called out.

He leaned an arm against the corner of the plank, letting the hammer swing lazily at his side. He regarded me with his typical dashing grin, "You can't learn to shoot just aiming at circles all day. What do you think? I'm thinking of calling him "Franz"."

I could not miss the implication of the name. Clearly, that was an old wound that had not yet even begun to heal. "I think "Franz" might be a bit on the tall side."

"Well, it was not as though I had a great many models to choose from. You'll learn to adapt. Have you discovered anything that might be helpful?"

I nodded, "Marigold Lee."

"Who is Marigold Lee?"

"Our key to finding Veena."

"I'll put the kettle on."

* * *

Roger passed me a cup of tea which I put to the side where a second cup, only sampled stood cold, as I sat at the table pouring through ship's passenger manifests. He took the seat across from me, took an obligatory sip and continued to leaf through the records.

"Marigold Lee! Here she is!" He spread the ledger out over my own, pointing to the name written in neat script. "She traveled on the Gloria Mundi to Hamburg in 1863 when she was only three months of age. Look at the name above her." He ran his finger up one place.

"Verena Lee! Sixteen years old. She changed her name!"

"That was why we couldn't find her," Roger finished victoriously.

I read the top of the ledger, in neat script read the words: _Brooklyn, New York, U.S.A_.

"The Americas?"

"It would follow."

I rushed to the bookshelf that held a plethora of ship's passenger manifests, speaking while I searched, pulling out books and piling them beside me. "She said she was seven when she was cast out into the wilderness. If it were an exile then that would mean she had immigrated from Germany somewhere between the years 1847 and 1854. Here." I dumped half the stack of log books in front of Roger. Putting mine aside I pulled a book from the top of the stack, opened it on top of the other and ran my finger down the list of names. "I don't think the name 'Ernst' is a coincidence. That is likely her original surname." I opened another book and repeated the procedure, names blurring by so quickly as my eyes were only trained to recognize one. "Here it is!" I pointed to the entry:

 _Clara Ernst (27)_

 _Rudolph Ernst (9)_

 _Hansel Ernst (7)_

 _Verena Ernst (1)_

"They left from Hamburg in 1848," I said.

"Then they would appear in the 1847 census," Roger finished the thought. We abandoned the ships' passenger manifests and moved to the census books. It was almost an hour before Roger finally found what we had been searching for.

"Marcus Ernst, 26, of Jengen in Bavaria, husband of Clara Ernst, 26. Children are listed as Rudolph, Hansel, and Verena."

"I didn't see any manifests with his name listed."

"Nor did I, perhaps he intended to join them at a later date." Roger opened another book and, after a few moments, frowned.

"What is it?"

"1850, Marcus Ernst, 30, husband of Emilia Ernst, 20. Children are listed as Adelaide, two years old and Matthias, infant."

I felt a sinking in my stomach. "Are they still there today? Perhaps we might be able to gain some further information?"

Roger picked up an 1886 census, but, upon quick inspection of the contents he frowned and picked up an earlier book. I did not need to ask why. Deciding we might meet in the middle, I took up the 1851 census.

"There's no record of Marcus Ernst following 1863," I said, laying down my book next to the open one of the previous year.

"Perhaps they moved."

"They would have had to move out of the country, there is no trace of them anywhere."

"It is possible they wished to remain part of the Austrian empire."

I fixed him with an incredulous look, "Do you really believe that?"

"Not for a moment. That their disappearance from the census should coincide with Miss Ernst's arrival offends reason. I believe a trip to the telegraph office is in order. I have an old friend I need to contact as well in the Americas." Roger flipped his bowler in his hands and placed it neatly upon his head.

"Who is it?" I asked.

"A Pinkerton Detective they call 'The Poet'. He is particularly skilled in tracking those who do not wish to be found. Though we may have to wait some time for an answer as he is rarely in the office."

"He sounds like quite the fellow."

"He's not one to be taken lightly."

"How did you come to be acquainted with a Pinkerton?"

"That story will have to wait until I return."

"I'm not going with you?"

He regarded me with a fond smirk, "And risk that we might be seen together? Use your head for God's sake."

"What should I do in the mean time, then?"

"Sleep. We have a long journey tomorrow and I would like to get in some target practice in the morning."

"Tomorrow? Where are we going?"

"To Alsace to speak with Monsieur Schnaebele. He believes he may have some information that would be of interest to us regarding a particular French man of your acquaintance but he did not want to risk the message being intercepted. Why else did you think I sent for you so soon?"

"Perhaps you missed my company."

"Would it satisfy your pride if I declared I found it almost impossible to sleep without you nearby? If I enumerated my agonies at your absence? Though if you wished that I should do that then I will not be able to make the telegraph office before it closes."

I glared at him, "You should not tease me so."

"I assure you, I am in earnest. Just tell me what you would like me to say and I will do so at once."

"Then I should like you to say 'Goodbye, Miss Moore'."

"Very well, as you wish. Goodbye, Miss Moore," he said and he strode out the doorway.

I had intended to remain awake until Roger returned but found I was unequal to the task, falling sound asleep while reading through a census book on the sofa before the first stars rose in the sky. Sometime, late, I was roused by a stirring somewhere behind me. The room was dark but for the faint glow of embers in the fireplace. I quietly shifted to see what the cause might be.

"Go back to sleep, Miss Moore, it is only I."

I yawned, my mind still blearily trying to decide whether this were a dream or reality. "You're home late."

"There was much to discuss; but that can wait until tomorrow." He placed another log on the fire, stoking the ashes with the poker. "Get some rest, Miss Moore."

I wanted to make some clever objection, but all my mind could manage was to help my head find its place, once more, on the sofa arm.

* * *

I awoke to the pale grey of dawn, a heavy blanket covered me. As I pulled it up to my chin I realized my feet were suddenly exposed to the early morning chill. What strange blanket was this? Regaining awareness I realized it was not a blanket at all, but a coat. It possessed the strong smell of the outdoors and gunpowder with a hint of bourbon and coffee. All that was Roger. Like the child morning made of me, I pulled the coat closer so that it formed a pillow under my cheek before realizing what I was doing and throwing the thing off. I heard the sound of clattering behind me.

"Oh good, you are awake. That saves me the trouble. Would you like a cup of tea before we begin the lesson?"

"Yes, please!"

A few minutes later we were settled with our tea.

"Were you able to contact your poet friend?" I asked, dipping a biscuit into the tea.

"The Poet, and no. Apparently Frank is rather preoccupied with the Crow at the moment."

"I thought American poets were more interested in Ravens."

"The Crow are an Indian Tribe, not a bird. Anyhow, they said they would pass the message along to him. But that could take some days."

"Days we may not have. Was the constable in Jengen able to provide any further information regarding Mr. Ernst?"

"Quite a lot. It seems Mr. Ernst and his first wife were heavily involved in the Revolution which found him often on the wrong side of the law. There was a large scandal involving him. Apparently, he sent his wife and children off to the Americas and then immediately took up with another woman of ill repute who already had a daughter that looked much like him. But as they had little trouble from either of them following that there was really not much to be said until the entire family was killed in a house fire on September 14th of 1863."

I rushed from my chair to the table where the manifests still lay, leafing through until I found the Gloria Mundi once more, "That's only three days after Verena Lee arrived!"

Roger regarded me seriously, putting into words my own thoughts, "I doubt it was a coincidence. Anyhow, if you are finished with your tea we may as well begin the lesson."

* * *

The silver pistol almost bucked out of my leather glove clad hand from the force of the shot. Roger shook his head in exasperation.

"You hold the pistol as if it were a surgical knife. That is why it jumps on you. When shooting you need to think of the pistol as an extension of you arm, not your fingers. Like this." He held his own large Russian piece out and fired three rounds. "You'll notice how the center of gravity is in my upper arm, not in my palm."

I attempted to copy his stance.

"Feet further apart. Allow your knees to bend some. You'll need that to absorb the shock so that you don't loose your balance. Keep the barrel parallel with your eyes." He walked over and, placing a hand under my chin, straightened it, "Parallel with-" he raised my arm, the pistol still in hand so that the sight lined up properly with the target, "-your eyes. There. Now aim for the circle in the center. You can use your other hand as support if you like, it will keep your aim straighter. Chin up. Higher." Exasperated he placed the back of his hand under my chin and raised it, not removing the support. "Now bring the sight up level with your eyes. Good. Now aim. Fire!"

I felt the weapon buck again, though far less severely.

"Well, you hit the boards this time. That is an improvement. Your grip is good, it is only your stance that is really the trouble. Again."

I practiced for almost half an hour, being constantly poked and prodded by Roger as he attempted to correct this or that problem. It seemed there were no end to them! As soon as I had thought I had one issue fixed there was another he had not even mentioned before. And, while I was certainly better than my first few shots, now that we were in the thick of it I could no longer tell whether I was getting better or worse.

"Again."

I took aim at the circle which represented the heart and fired. A small hole appeared just slightly below and to the right of the circle.

"That was good."

"If I want to do no damage at all!" I said, eyes stinging with tears of frustration.

"What do you mean?"

"The only thing in that spot is the diaphragm. Certainly it would hurt, but a person can easily survive a hole in their diaphragm."

"Then I suppose you shall just have to practice more."

And practice I did until Roger declared that while my aim might still require work, it was, at least, good enough to be dangerous. Following a quick breakfast of toast we made our way to the station for the first train to Alsace.

* * *

The journey to Alsace was quite long. Despite catching an early train it was already after noon when we arrived. Officer Schnaebele welcomed us to join him for a light lunch before sending us on to the tiny town of Beauchene with a packet of information marked _du Beauchene, H._ he told us he did not feel comfortable discussing in public. We sifted through the few documents within as our train moved along over the countryside.

It seemed Monsieur Du Beauchene was known to Schnaebele, the latter having formerly caught him smuggling nitroglycerin out of the country to Austria through the Alsace border during the war. When Du Beauchene's apartment had been searched they found quite an array of explosives. Unfortunately, Du Beauchene had anticipated such a possibility but Schnaebele had managed to guess the room might be set to explode and had miraculously avoided tripping the bomb. While Schnaebele was otherwise disposed, Du Beauchene had managed a rather daring escape from custody across the border into Austria. Since then Schnaebele had kept on the alert for him.

Schnaebele had attempted to contact the family at the time but they had refused to respond to his entreaties for any information as to where their son might have taken refuge. They claimed ignorance, though this offended reason for they still had numerous familial ties to Austria dating back to the Revolution. Their unwillingness to cooperate, though an affront to France, did not surprise Schnaebele. At the moment their son was only accused of a crime, were he caught and tried the disgrace would be far greater than they could afford. According to the documents they were an old family of Noble name which had not been of enough consequence to cause their permanent expulsion during the Revolution. They had returned to their ancestral home after the Terror had ended with an interest in reclaiming whatever benefits their rank might entail them to, which had turned out to be very little aside from their land, though still greater than they had been afforded in Austria. They owned a sizable vineyard of little note and even less success. The family consisted of three sons, Phillipe, who was the eldest, Marius, and Henri, himself. Still, despite meager success, they managed to scrape by enough to keep a small staff on their estate as well as provide a respectable inheritance for their first son and purchase a military rank for their second.

Disembarking from the train, we were met by a young policeman in a coach at the station who appeared rather annoyed at having to escort us so late into the countryside.

As we approached the crumbling Estate I could sense something was amiss. The house was too still, there were none moving about the grounds. The coach rattled up the drive but no one came to greet us. Roger helped me out of the coach. The cobblestones had become overgrown. The officer walked up to the door and knocked. There was no answer. He tried a second time, to no avail. Roger stepped forward and tried the handle, which easily gave way.

The large house smelt of mildew with the slight stench of decay that often testified to rats. There was no light but that which filtered in through the grimy windows. The glass of the lamps was almost entirely obscured by black soot. Flies meandered through the halls, untroubled by our unexpected appearance. I met Roger's gaze. We spoke not a word but continued on. The smell grew stronger as we neared the dining room. The officer had fallen back, leaving me in the lead of our party. The large red doors to the dining room, wreathed in gilded foliage, stood closed. The smell was now almost overpowering. I took a handkerchief from my bag and held it to my nose.

"This is where it comes from. Prepare yourselves."

I opened the door.

The stench assaulted our senses with such force as to throw the officer back. He retched loudly before covering his nose as I had. Not that it had much effect. It was so foul the smell was almost palpable. Roger followed me in as did the officer.

"Dear God in heaven!" the officer gasped.

I would not begrudge him the blasphemous statement. The table was set with what had once been a sumptuous feast. Flies crawled in and out of the boar's snout and danced upon its eyelids. A roasted hen with skin as stiff as ancient oil paper was missing a portion but was otherwise undisturbed. Bowls of wrinkled fruits and dried sauces still sat, wholly untouched. Loaves of bread, cloaked in soft greens and whites lay on large wooden boards with knives beside, at the ready. At the table, sitting as though poised to eat, still with glasses half full of wine, were five decaying corpses. Three male and two female by their dress. Flies landed here and there upon them. There was a sixth place set as well, but unlike the others it showed signs of use. The leg and thigh bones of the hen lay, dried, next to an apple core. The remnants of a dried sauce and congealed butter mingled on the edge of the plate. The glass beside this place was empty.

Roger went into the kitchen but quickly returned. "The cook, the maid, and the butler are in there."

I took one of the wine glasses from the table and sniffed it. The odor was strong, stronger than sensible for a pork and hen pairing. Swirling the deep red liquid slightly I saw a familiar powder had settled at the base. "Potassium Cyanide." I turned to the officer and gestured toward the head of the table where what had once been a tall, slender man with black hair and beard both flecked with white, "Is this Monsieur Du Beauchene?"

"I-I think so. I recognize the cane and the b- the beard." At this word the officer was lost to us, having run out into the hall to vomit.

"I am impressed he held out so long," I said.

"It is probably his first case of this type."

"Hopefully it will also be his last."

"What are your thoughts?"

Now somewhat acclimated to the smell I was able to approach the bodies. "It's difficult to tell at this advanced stage, but I would guess this is Madame Du Beauchene." I indicated the woman who sat on the opposite end of the table from Monsieur Du Beauchene. To her left the empty seat. "And the other woman might be the wife of one of the other men, probably this first one, judging by his position. The third man, I cannot say much for but that he must have been closer to Madame Du Beauchene than he who occupied the empty chair."

"I would wager he is the second son. That's a Médaille d'honneur on the floor beside him. You can see the tear where it was ripped from his coat," Roger observed.

"Then the one to to the right of Monsieur Du Beauchene is likely the first. I doubt there is any more we can glean from these poor souls, we should search the house."

"I will take the downstairs, you check the living quarters."

I went up the stairs, catching sight of the police officer kicking around the cobblestones outside, evidently in no hurry to rejoin us. It seemed nothing had been disturbed in months. I entered a small room, not much larger than a servant's quarters. Inside was a bed, stripped of its coverings, and an old dresser. I was about to abandon it as storage space but then noticed dark squares on the wall from where pictures had recently been removed and an uneven coating of dust which showed where objects had once sat. I recognized a familiar imprint on the dresser: evenly spaced round beads ended by a tail of three finished with a cross. The place where a rosary had once lain. Beside it an empty square. I took the little red book from my bag and held it over the empty space; it was a perfect match.

I ran down the stairs to find Roger sifting through the ashes of the fireplace in the study. The room appeared to have been ransacked.

"Did you do this?"

"No, I would never be so careless. There is a safe that was hidden behind the portrait," he waved a hand toward a picture of a slender man with black hair and beard, leaning on a cane topped by a large jewel. The man bore the vaguest resemblance to one I had only just left yesterday, though more regal of feature. "but it has been emptied. Look," he prodded the pile of ash, "he's burned everything. I cannot find a single record that Henri Du Beauchene ever existed. If not for Schnaebele we would have nothing to tell us he ever was. And we very nearly did not even have that."

I knelt down beside him. Among the ashes the skeletons of beads, partially exploded from the heat of the fire, bore witness. "He erased himself. Or, at least, he tried to. But why would he do such a thing?"

"Why indeed?"

* * *

By the time we returned to Beauchene it was far too late to catch the last train. We procured lodging at what called itself an inn but was more accurately a house with three spare rooms. Though it had been my intention to sleep thoughts of Du Beauchene plagued my drowsing mind. I could see him, as if in a dream, walking around the dinner table before supper had been called, pouring the contents of a small vial into their drinks. Sitting down to supper with his family, perhaps proposing a toast, then calmly eating his meal as those around him suddenly convulsed and fell silent. In my mind I saw a malevolent smile appear as he watched the last of them cease moving with his dark eyes. I saw him dabbing his lips with a cloth before standing, walking over to his brother, and tearing the medal from the dead man's chest with a single swipe so that it fell to the floor. Then he took the dining room doors in hand, his dark form larger than life, and, still staring at the scene, closed them. I shuddered, fully rousing myself, not wishing to sleep for fear of dreaming. I sought a book and found only Baudelaire but reading gave me no comfort, within the pages no quarter. For his soul rose as a perfume from the ink disturbing my mind and filling my senses. I was glad to see the thin light of dawn upon the horizon. In the room beside mine I could hear Roger moving about and wondered if he had been able to sleep.

My answer came as we pulled into Paris Station. I had not even realized I had fallen asleep until the porter slid open the door to our compartment.

"Paris!" the porter called.

I jolted awake. I felt a strange pressure on the side of my head. Turning slightly I saw Roger, still asleep, his head resting against my own. I reached over and gently shook his shoulder.

"Roger... Roger... we've arrived in Paris."

He stirred, regarding me with a sleepy smile, "Good morning, Miss Moore."

"I believe it is past noon."

"Good afternoon, then. Take your pick," he said, stretching his arms to their full span with a grimace His shoulder where my head had lain popped loudly..

"How much longer?"

He looked at his watch, "We have about an hour before the train to Cologne departs, and from there we will catch the train to Munster. We will arrive by eight if all goes as planned. Hopefully there will be enough light that we will be able to get some practice in. We should probably purchase lunch before we leave, I find it infinitely easier to eat on a stationary surface. Are you hungry?"

I had not even had time to consider my current state, "I suppose I could eat something."

Lunch accomplished we boarded the train where Roger decided the time would be best put to use by a review of all that I had learned since my time in Gerizim. I related to him all the strange workings of the town. I had mentioned to him before the Sanguinem Agni Ceremony but was now able to do so in greater detail. I spoke of the sudden influx of people and our conversation with Rachael revealing that Veena had called in her missionaries.

A thick furrow grew between Roger's brows. "You said Rachael told you she had done this before?"

"Yes, in January."

"Then we do not have much time."

"If she wishes to continue to use her timeline, I doubt we have more than three weeks before the next big attack."

"Why do you say that?"

"The Kingdom of Munster fell on June 24. She'll wish to mark the date."

We sat in silence as we both pondered the implications of that statement.

Finally he spoke, "I did mean to ask, how did you manage to infiltrate Gerizim so quickly?"

He frowned as I related the story of Dinah's midnight assignation.

"So that is why you told me not to trust her. How long do you think they had been meeting in secret?"

"I could not say for certain, and she has never confessed it on asking, but at least a few weeks would be my guess."

"Do you believe she might betray us?"

"Not intentionally. I know Menning holds a great deal of sway over her, but as of yet he has not won over her faith."

"If he proposes to her do you think she would accept?"

"I do not know, but it is my hope she would not."

"Then I suppose we should count ourselves fortunate he has not yet asked; that is far too important a tie to maintain."

"I would rather it be broken."

"Why do you say that? You have attested he is highly regarded in the Kingdom of Munster; it is far better to maintain a good connection. Otherwise you will be vulnerable."

"I fear we are made more vulnerable through keeping it. Veena is... unnaturally attached to Menning. She regards Dinah with a particular antipathy that I fear would be dangerous were he to make his intentions known."

"She is jealous?"

I nodded.

"How does Quentin feel about this?"

"I'm not sure Quentin is particularly aware of it. I mean, certainly he must have some inkling, but he has lately been so preoccupied he would probably forget to eat were dinner not mandated."

"Another invention?"

"Yes, an Archimedes screw mill. He and Gregory spend all of their spare time working on it."

"Gregory Mueller?"

"The very same. They seem to be kindred spirits. You will rarely find one without the other."

Roger shook his head knowingly. "If I were to ask you to draw a map of Gerizim would you be able to?"

I was surprised by the sudden change in subject, thinking for a moment, "I suppose I could, though it would take some time."

"Good, and perhaps you could tell me more about this Du Beauchene character. I am growing weary of only seeing his handiwork with no knowledge of the man."

* * *

We arrived back at the cottage at almost precisely eight o' clock and immediately set to practicing for another half an hour before Roger sent me inside to brew some tea while he took down the target. Even in such a short time I had improved markedly. While I still could not consistently hit the heart, I now rarely missed the man. I began my map of Gerizim. It took quite some time to finish, it seemed whenever I thought I had recalled everything another piece appeared in my mind. The small, empty stable beside the Bauer's house, the watchtowers at the entrance to the horse path, the stone mill - those small features that could prove imperative. Putting the final touches on the paper I stretched.

"Finished?" Roger asked as I handed him the map.

"Finally."

He put the paper down on the table beside him. "Would you like another cup of tea?"

"Thank you, yes."

We sat for a time sipping tea before the warm fire.

"Will you be staying here tonight?" he asked.

"It is very late. That might be easiest. Though if Menning were to arrive early I would not want to be caught out."

"I'm certain you could find some excuse."

"Perhaps."

I did hate the thought of venturing out so late, away from my cat and my bed. I pondered my ambition as I sipped the tea.

There was a loud pounding on the door.

"Who is it!" Roger shouted over the sound.

"Heinrich Menning!" a voice shouted from the other side of the door which was still being beaten without ceasing.

"Just a minute!"

Roger and I exchanged panicked looks.

"Into the fireplace!" he said urgently, reaching into the flames and pulling down the false panel so that it served as a bridge over the fire.

I quickly crawled inside the small compartment behind. It was cool and dark.

"Kepler! Answer the door!" Menning growled.

"I'm coming!"

I pulled the panel into place, just as I did so I glimpsed Roger fold up the map into quarters and shove it into his inside pocket. On the other side of the panel I could hear Roger stirring the fire so that it would appear undisturbed. I distinctly heard the sound of another log being added.

"What in God's name can it be so late!" Roger yelled as he threw open the door. I heard it slam against the wall from the force.

"Where is she!" Heinrich demanded.

"Where is who?" Roger's tone was irritable.

"Miss Kepler! Where are you hiding her!" From the sounds I could tell Menning had entered without invitation and was searching, rather loudly, for signs of my presence.

"I haven't seen Miss Kepler in well over a month. Why don't you ask her Granny?"

"I've just come from there," Menning growled. "She hasn't been by all day."

I could hear the bedroom doors slamming one by one.

"I see you've acquired new furnishings and horses."

"I recently came into some money."

"You stole that money from your guests."

"I won on a longshot in the races!"

"And who's tea is this? You have brandy poured; you can't expect me to believe you were drinking both at different chairs."

I couldn't believe I was foolish enough to forget my cup of tea.

"I had a lady friend over. Am I not allowed company now?"

"It's still warm."

"She just left a few minutes ago."

"Then why did I not pass her on my way?"

"She lives in the opposite direction, deeper into Coerde, she must have decided to cut through the forest."

"This late at night?"

"I am not required to answer for the traveling habits of my guests."

"No, you just fleece them of all their belongings."

"Perhaps she's with one of your lot. Why should I care what the little slut does?"

The searching stopped and a heavy footfalls told me Menning was now at the place where Roger stood. I heard the dull thud of a blow landing. I shifted the panel just enough that I could see through the crack. There stood Menning, panting heavily, Roger on the floor before him.

"How dare you!"

Roger slowly made his way to his hands and knees, a thin line of blood trailing from his lip. I knew he could have dodged the blow but had chosen not to. Still it pained me.

"How dare I?" he muttered from his place on the floor. "You barge into my house in the middle of the night, tear everything asunder, assault me, and then have the gall to ask how dare I?"

"I'd wager you've earned far worse than that."

Though still mostly on his hands and knees, Roger drew his silver pistol in the sloppy manner of a man unaccustomed to using a firearm and pointed it at Menning. "Get out of my house!" he growled.

Menning raised his hands, taking a step back, "I'll go. But if you so much as go near your niece again-"

"Now." Roger cocked the gun.

Menning backed out, staring daggers at Roger the entire way to the door. Roger followed. A minute later I heard the door slam and the heavy sound of the bolt.

"Well, now that that's over." I heard Roger say, somewhat cheerfully.

I watched him walk back into sight as though nothing more had transpired than escorting a vaguely unpleasant guest off after tea. He straightened his cuff links and gave the hem of his coat a tug so that it lay flat. I pushed open the panel and crawled out.

"Roger, your lip," I cried, pulling out my handkerchief.

He touched a finger to the wound and looked curiously at the red spot upon the tip. "I suppose your right. I guess he threw a better blow than I thought. Anyhow, nothing to fuss over, Miss Moore," he said, repelling my attempt to dab the wound. "So that's Dinah's suitor, eh? Charming fellow. We really should have him over for tea sometime when this is all over."

"Ah, so you intend on staying around for a while this time?" I said, archly.

"Miss Moore, I intend to stay by your side so long as you will allow me."

"As long as I will allow you? Why would I not? You are speaking in riddles again."

"I assure you I am not." He shifted uncomfortably. "Miss Moore, there is something I said to you a long time ago. When I said it I believed it was true, but now I no longer wish it to be so. Do you recall those many years ago on the bank of the Darent River?"

"How could I ever forget?"

"You recall I kissed you and said I was certain I would not be the last man to do so."

"Yes."

"Well, at the time I believed it to be the truth, but now I do not want it to be so."

"You cannot possibly mean to be saying...?"

"I regret that I could not be the first, but I want to be the last man to kiss you. I only ask that you would allow me to be."

"Roger!" I cried in startled disbelief, no longer caring who heard.

"Miss Philomena Moore, I have waged war within myself these three years. I have battled truth with reason and failed to subdue it. Failing that, I ran from it and prayed that distance might, over time, cause my pain to subside. But my agony only grew. I appealed to better angels that I might, if not be able to conquer myself, then to at least silently accept my lot. But to see your face, to hear your voice, to have you once more beside me; I can deny truth no longer. My heart is held captive by you. I can no longer pretend my support for your union with any man unless that man be me for I can not bear to be separated from you again. For what man can live without his heart? And it cannot survive outside of you for it is yours, it belongs to you. Were I to die within you it would still remain. I only ask that you might take the rest of me as well, unworthy a man as I might be. Here I stand, I can do no other." His dark eyes met mine. There was a desperation in them. A plaintive pleading.

I sought for words. "I am engaged!" I cried.

"Is that your only reason for refusing?"

"How can you ask me such a question?"

Roger took hold of my hands, his eyes partially closed. I could now see within them what I had been told lingered there. It was far beyond mere affection. In my mind explosions burst one after the other, spots of shimmering blackness threatening to consume my reason. Stardust. I wished to speak but could not, for it were as though my stomach had lurched up into my throat, blocking any words that might be uttered.

"If you can tell me now that you do not care for me as I do for you then I shall withdraw my sentiments and never speak of them again,"

Every fiber of my being wished to answer him; reason, obligation were being choked by the descending oblivion in my mind. My very soul burned within me, a fire threatening to inflame my mind and senses.

"I... I must go!" I managed, tearing myself from him. I ran from the house to that of my supposed grandmother.

In the morning I found my horse tied outside: saddled and waiting for Menning's arrival. Menning appeared relieved that his fears had been unfounded, that I had merely rode too far and gotten lost the day before. I resolved to put what had happened the night before out of my mind, yet for the whole of the ride Roger would not leave my thoughts. Every word, every gesture, the feel of my hand in his, the tender gaze of his eye that sent my stomach swooping and set my heart to pounding. Of such things I could not think! But the memories refused to be banished. It were as though something had awoken within me, something that had not stirred in nine long years, a great and terrible thing I had believed dead and buried. Now it threatened to possess me once more. I greeted Quentin, Dinah, and the Bauers on my return home, begging that I might take my leave of them early for I was tired from traveling. As I lay down in my bed I ran a finger over my lips, not recalling the kiss only just bestowed upon them by my doting fiancé, but another, given upon a riverbank, so many years ago.


	27. Chapter 27

I woke late that morning with Roger's confession still weighing heavily on my mind. I had truly never considered it might be possible that he could harbor any romantic notions toward me, let alone that he could be in love with me. And for three years he had fostered these feelings, no less! Three years ago I had only seen him for the Chapman case. When had they even begun? When was their time? On the beach before he left? Or was it before then? When seen through that lens so many of his mystifying acts and statements made perfect sense. How could I have been so stupid to miss it? At least he had done me the service of attempting to respect my engagement - but was it not worse that at this time he would now confess and force me to consider another man's affections when I was already promised? Of course I could not consider him. It was impossible. It was cruel to Quentin to even allow the thought. Was not my fiance all I might wish for in a mate? He was kind, diligent, respectful, certainly he would be an excellent father and indulgent husband. I might never have wealth but I should never want either. But oh that man's eyes! Dark and searching, sarcastic and mocking, pleading, then all at once gentle and loving. The way he piqued me and teased me and tormented me. And my mind was full of him.

I needed to get away. To go anywhere that might distract me. I quickly fixed myself for the day.

"Good morning, Miss Kepler!" Mr. Bauer greeted me with a smile as I came into the kitchen. He was scraping some greasy eggs onto the serving plate. Max danced around my legs, less risking tripping me than wholly preventing my entrance by his bulk. "I was just clearing breakfast, would you like some eggs?"

"No thank you, I will just have a slice of toast. Is Quentin about?" I took a slice of toast and sat a moment. Max put a paw on my leg and gave me such a plaintive stare I waited until I thought Mr. Bauer was not looking and broke a corner of the toast off and snuck it to the great white beast.

" You'll spoil him if you do that." Mr. Bauer said, not even looking up. "He's down by the river. Gregory came to fetch him about an hour ago. They seemed excited about something."

"Thank you, Mr. Bauer, I believe I shall take the opportunity to see what it is they have been on about."

"Tell Gregory he is welcome to lunch with us if he likes."

"I will," I said, finishing my toast and getting up from the table.

The weather was wonderfully pleasant, the sun shone brightly in a sapphire sky. There was a cool, wet feeling that spoke of a late-night rain. I made my way to the river where I could already hear the voices of two men talking merrily. As I approached I could see them working on a rather large contraption in front of a stone dam I had not noticed before.

"Ho, Mina!" Quentin called, raising a hand in greeting.

"Good morning, Miss Kepler!" Gregory smiled.

"Good morning, Quentin, dear. Gregory. So this is the grand invention I have heard so much about. How is the work coming?"

"See for yourself. This man's a genius!" Gregory exclaimed slapping an arm around Quentin's shoulders. Quentin stiffened at the familiar contact, but opted not to shake him off.

"Well, it was your idea to dam the river," Quentin returned.

"A small contribution. You were the one who figured out that if the flow of water to the screw were reversed it could be used to turn a mill wheel."

"So how does it work precisely?" I interrupted.

Quentin pointed to the large metal screw which sat in the spillway of the dam. "You might recall that an Archimedes screw can be employed to move water from low lying bodies of waters to higher ones simply by turning it. Well, I thought that perhaps if the process were reversed, and water were sent through from a higher point to a lower one, thus turning the screw through the motion of the water instead of the screw moving the water, then we might be able to harness the rotation of the screw to turn a mill stone." He indicated toward a series of gears attached to the bottom of the screw which were quickly turning a large grey millstone as we spoke. "As I observed before, the only mill they have uses a large water wheel which requires a rather constant flow of water."

"And that has caused us a great deal of trouble in times of drought because the wheel won't move. But this screw means that we can operate a flour mill with much less water so if there is a drought we can still mill the flour." He looked at Quentin as if for approval.

Quentin nodded, "At least for all but the most severe drought. But it was Gregory who suggested that we create the dam with a channel to direct the water to the screw. I fear sometimes I can see the invention more completely than the world around it."

"So it is complete?"

"Almost. I mean, this is merely a working model, the real one would be larger and able to turn a full-sized millstone, at least in theory."

"All that we need to do is build a bit of a house for it, to keep it safe from the elements," Gregory said.

"You should stop by later today, perhaps you will be the first to see it finished."

"I will try to."

"Where are you off to today, dear?"

"I was thinking that perhaps since Monsieur Du Beauchene was kind enough to ask in on me I might repay the visit."

"You might want to stop by the watchtowers, Georg's been quite worried about you. He'd be glad to know you are recovered."

"It is true, he's asked in on you every day."

"Perhaps I will, after lunch. Which does remind me, Mr. Bauer has invited you to lunch with us."

"Of course! That is, if we don't get too caught up." He grinned at Quentin.

"I would like to finish the prototype today if possible," Quentin agreed.

"Then I will see you at supper."

"Most probably." Quentin smiled.

I continued on to the workshop, now so familiar to me that, despite its shabbiness, the sight of it made my heart lighter. There was nothing so good as work to distract the troubled mind. Then all at once I recalled with vivid clarity the image of Du Beauchene eating supper with an audience of corpses. The idea of him watching their bodies until the last moment when he had closed the doors. I shivered despite the growing warmth of the day. Suddenly I very much wished to visit Georg at the watchtowers and might have turned to go had Du Beauchene not seen me approach and thus met me at the door.

He appraised my entire form with a glance, lingering on my eyes. "Bonjour, Miss Kepler. You are looking well today."

"Bonjour, Monsieur Du Beachene. Might you have any work for me today?"

"Nothing that would interest a lady such as yourself. But if you wish to stay you might help me with some smith work."

"Is it anything difficult?"

"No, just applying rivets to leather straps. Though, despite its simplicity it is a rather time consuming task. It will go much faster with someone to punch the holes in the leather. I have already measured and marked where the holes will be, so it should not give you too much trouble."

He led me to a long table in the open air section of the workshop where long strips of leather lay. He picked up a strap that had been studded with rivets. I recognized the design as that which had contained the dynamite of Mr. Fuch's bomb. "This is what the finished product will look like," he said, then he carelessly tossed it on the table. Picking up a leather strap he held it between his fingers, showing a dull charcoal dot in the center. "As you can see, I have already marked them, all you need do is use the punch to put a hole where I've marked."

So they would be using dynamite, and quite a lot of it judging by the number of securing straps, for, if I recalled the bomb correctly there had only been two, one on each end, binding it. Dynamite would mean their intended targets were close. Du Beauchene would not want to risk transporting something so dangerous far, and certainly not across well tended borders where a German might appear suspicious. They were probably meant for a building, or perhaps a mine. I wished I could tell Roger, I thought as I punched a hole in the leather. If he could only see the things in this workshop!

"You are smiling," Du Beauchene observed.

"Am I?"

"I've noticed you have been smiling more these past few weeks."

"I was unaware of it."

We continued working in silence until I had finished my last task. I stood and began strolling around the room aimlessly, or so it might seem to my compatriot who was still at table with hammer and rivet in hand. I began leafing through a sheaf of paper which hung from a peg on one of the shelves. It was a series of plans for fuses which were laced with some chemical.

"What are these?"

"Cesium fuses."

"Cesium?"

"It is a highly reactive element that combusts when it comes into contact with water."

"What use could one have for that?"

"It is just something I am tinkering with in the vein of self-lighting fuses. I would like to find a feasible alternative to phosphorus that would be less dangerous to the manufacturer."

"And you think Cesium might be that alternative?"

"No, but it may have other applications."

He volunteered no further information. I picked up a small metal item and began fiddling with it.

"Georg Mueller is in love with you."

I dropped the metal object back on the shelf and turned, stunned, staring. Du Beauchene did not look up from his work.

"But I would ask you come to me first, when you tire of your husband." He glanced up from his work momentarily.

I sought for words, completely dumbfounded. Surely I had not heard him correctly. "What did you say?" I finally managed.

"I have noticed a change in your aspect as of recently, there has been a new light in your eyes. I have lately dared to hope I might be the cause of it and not he. Surely you must realize how highly I regard you. I have never met a woman such as you. You have brought light where I once thought I was forever consigned to darkness; my soul a tomb, my life a stark spectacle of my bleak misery."

"I am engaged!"

"That is of no matter."

I could only stare at him. Of no matter! What sort of degenerate would consider an engagement of no matter?

"I know it may come as a shock to you. You have not been properly inducted into our community. But such relations are not considered sinful here. I own that communal marriage is, what Veena would call, strong doctrine and thus may initially shock, even repulse the hearer upon first introduction; but, as she would say, it is written that the early Christians had everything in common. Thus relationships outside of the primary marriage are accepted, even common. A woman or man may take multiple lovers. Though a man may not take for a lover an unmarried woman, a married woman may take any baptized man. The only requirement is that discretion be exercised and the couple maintain the initial marriage bond for the purpose of having and raising babies until they are weaned. Even your fiance and Gregory may be permitted so long as they are discreet and he does his duty as a husband by you."

"I do not know what you can mean."

"I think you do. But there is a large difference between seeing a thing and being able to comprehend it. They say when the first ships came to the Americas, even though the ships were in the harbor, it took three days for the Natives to see them because they could not conceive of - could not accept - their existence. I only ask that when you have seen the ships that you come to me first."

"How dare you make such an untoward proposition? And such an insinuation about my fiance! How dare you!" I stormed out of the workshop.

I did not go to see Georg as I had said I might, but instead walked back along the river. I could hear laughing as I approached the dam. I hid myself in the shade of a stand of large trees, watching the pair. Quentin and Gregory were sitting on the shore, sharing a spare lunch between them, and laughing at what the other had to say. Surely Du Beauchene had been mistaken: his mind, eager to find a reason for me to accept his attentions had to first remove my fiance from the equation. Gregory leaned over and whispered something in Quentin's ear, causing Quentin to burst out in laughter. My fiance lay back, letting the sun fall on his face and chest, his arms behind his head. Gregory followed suit. Anyone would know they were clearly close friends, a truer David and Johnathan there never had been I assured myself, merely his accusation had been the musings of a jealous mind. But had not Roger also mentioned...

Regardless of Du Beauchene's motives, or Roger's for that matter, they were correct on one account, one that was as plain as any might be. It was only affection that existed between Quentin and I and at this moment I found I envied Gregory for it was he and not I Quentin chose as his companion. Even though I knew it was better for the plan, that it increased our influence and knowledge, that having the Mueller brothers as allies had opened so many more doors, I suddenly felt desperately cold and lonely in the shade, watching them sunning themselves on the shore opposite. A dull ache filled my heart. There may not be ships, but there was the vast expanse of emptiness of the harbor. And I had been a fool. I had left Du Beauchene, the only man from whom I could learn their plans, humiliated. I hung my head as I made slow progress to the Bauers' house where I found the siren call of the little red book too much to bear. I read until I fell asleep, allowing that intoxicating perfume to intertwine itself around my heart, recalling the morose visage of the monk in his loathsome cloister as I left him.

I awoke with the call to supper. It was a moment before I realized I was alone but for the little red companion sharing my pillow. I took the book and carefully tucked it into my bag that no one might see. Initially unwilling, I allowed myself to be convinced by Rachael and Dinah that perhaps the society might do me good, though, at the moment, society was the very last thing I wanted.

Du Beauchene was notably absent for the majority of the meal, but for a few minutes near the close where he appeared to conference a moment with Veena. However, he did not so much as glance my way.

"Are you well, Mina? You seem preoccupied," Quentin observed.

"Oh yes, I am quite well. Only I am troubled by how many more seem to have arrived since I left."

"Yes, I'd estimate the numbers have swelled to almost five hundred new arrivals."

"If she were to marshall them all as she did before, I wonder how we would stop them."

"I know you would think of something," Quentin said, spearing a green bean, "If there is one person I have faith in, it is you."

I watched as Du Beauchene walked away without even a look. I could bear it no longer!

"Quentin, there is something I must do, forgive me." I stood and hurriedly made my way from the pavilion.

There was still a light on in the workshop where I knew Du Beauchene's drawing board to be. I did not know what I would say, I could not even begin to guess what words I might use that he would allow my return. My heart beat a wild rhythm within my chest as I raised my hand to knock. Then lowered it. What was I doing? Why was I suddenly filled with such fear? It was not the fear of the man I had once felt, a fear of the things he had done, the things he was capable of doing. For those things I now knew. This was different. This was a new terror wrought of an intimacy tended and grown with the greatest care. I rose my hand to knock again, but the door opened before I could.

"You came back." His words were soft, stunned.

"I had your book." I quickly pulled out the little red book.

"Is that your only reason why?"

"No." I glanced down, then raised my eyes back to his.

For one true moment I saw his gaze wholly change, as though it were somehow capable of an embrace though he made no move to do so. He gently pushed the book back. "Keep it for now, we can discuss it when you come tomorrow."

I did return tomorrow, and the next day, and the next. Du Beauchene made no attempts to renew his profession of affection and I certainly did not address it. But rather than create a wall between us, it now seemed all barriers had been breached. Du Beauchene remained as taciturn as ever, that proving to be his nature, but there was a comfort in the silence, a familiarity in those few words uttered, a gentleness in his expression, a turn of the lips that was almost tender when he regarded me. When he acted in this manner it was easy to, not so much forget who he was and what he had done, but to become distracted from it and begin to unconsciously regard those things as the acts of of another who merely happened to share the name and form. Even as I grew more aware that I was being lulled into a false sense of security, I seemed powerless to stop it and I wondered if I really wanted to. I tried to pretend that it was merely better that I allow myself to be brought in by his charm; had I not learned more in the past few days than I had in a month? Was I not now privy to his drawings, his designs? Had he not come to, if not wholly trust, than regard me as his assistant? My mind was now no longer full of Roger, or Quentin, but of the workshop and the smell of metal and soot and oil and dirt. Often I awoke to find once more the little red book on the pillow beside my head where it had made its bed almost every night since I had returned.

On the fifth day since my return I was standing rather idly in the workshop investigating the shelves while Du Beauchene worked the wires of a clock with miniature instruments when I turned to him,

"Monsieur Du Beauchene, might I ask you a question?"

He did not look up from his work but smiled indulgently. "Any favor that begins in such a way invariably seeks to expand on the definition of a singular. But you may ask and I will answer if I can.

"I was wondering since you know so much of my family, might you tell me something of your own?"

"What do you wish to know?"

"Do you have any siblings, for instance?"

He turned over the clock, setting it down on its legs. "I have two brothers."

"Are they elder or younger?"

"They are both elder." He leaned on his elbow, regarding me more attentively. "Might I ask what has brought about this line of questioning?"

I tried to feign nonchalance, "Merely trying to piece you together."

"And what have you found?"

"Well, most of the books that bear your name in the library are of a religious nature. And not just of the common variety; these are the books I would expect of a seminarian. Beyond that you chose to quote Le Mauvais Moine, the Bad Monk, the other day in description of your own circumstance. I hardly believe those words chosen of coincidence. You live in a community that not only practices marriage but polygamy and yet you choose to remain isolated. Further, you speak as one with education and your name denotes nobility; but as a noble with two elder brothers there are few choices of occupation."

"Ask your question." The words were still gentle but a sharpness had returned to his eye.

"Were you a Priest?"

"No."

"I'm sorry, I did not mean to pry."

He returned to the clock. "You were not wholly wrong. I was a seminarian until I was expelled in my final year. I am a member of the Deaconate, not that they would acknowledge me. My father was a member of the nobility, by name more than by class, but he wished that we might follow the traditional path. My brother was to be the sole inheritor with only a pittance to be spared for the younger sons and thus it was up to my brother and I to make our way. My brother became the soldier, a decorated war hero, and I was to become a Priest that our family name might bring honor in Heaven as well as on earth. But when I was expelled my father wrote to me that I was a disgrace to the family name and suggested I not return home for I would not be welcome there."

"I lacked the physicality of a soldier and as a Deacon I was barred from marriage so I decided to follow the only path that appeared open to me to win back my father's regard, for I was a young man then and at that time such things seemed monumentally important to me, so I decided to pursue learning in the hope that I might one day bring honor to the family through great works in academia. But it was not to be. I lacked the funds to afford schooling and my father refused to provide. Any position I might obtain did not pay nearly well enough that I could afford to sustain myself and pursue and education. My second brother, knowing of my plight, offered that he would pay for my schooling if I did a job for him. I knew it was illegal, but he assured me I would not be caught tempted me with words of wealth and redemption in the eyes of my father. He knew I was in no position to refuse him."

I felt a slow sickness creeping into my stomach. I did not need him to say it. I did not want him to. He had been smuggling explosives for his brother when he was caught at the border. His brother had no reason to believe Du Beauchene would be caught which meant the apartment, rigged to explode upon entry, had not been a precaution.

"I was caught. By God's grace I escaped my captors into Austria where I sought the aid of the man my brother arranged for me to meet. But as I had not the promised goods he opted to take his payment from my flesh instead and sold me to the Prince of Brunswick who was only too glad to make a conscript of me in the war against the Dutch. It was there I was found to have quite a talent for munitions, particularly explosives. There was something I found particularly pleasurable about watching a building that had once stood strong reduced to rubble and flame in the space of heartbeat at my command. As though the world had been cleansed and nature victories over that which sought to subdue her."

"But what of the people?"

"If you must ask that question you will never understand war."

"No, I suppose I wouldn't." I couldn't hide the sharp note in my voice at this, but he did not seem to notice.

"The war ended and I found myself once more without money or home, spending my nights in the pubs of Jena where I would pass the nights arguing philosophy with students as though it were by choice I were there and not by force of circumstance. It was there I met Veena. She was arguing Biblical doctrine with the other supposed scholars. You may imagine it was quite difficult to ignore this pretty (for at the time she was quite so) young woman who was holding her own against men educated in some of the finest seminaries - Wittenberg, Dresden, Heidelberg - and all of them easily bested. I confess, in my arrogance, I believed where they had failed I would easily succeed. We talked well into the night. She set my soul on fire with her words. She told me things about myself I thought no one could know. It was only years later I realized how common a man I had actually been." He gave a derisive snort. "She knew me no better than Adam, she merely knew that nearly all young men of my ilk thought and desired similarly and was clever enough to use those things to her advantage."

"You hold no reserve in speaking ill of her."

"I have no wish to risk losing you to her tricks. She is a fraud and those who follow her will soon come to grieve for it."

"Do you mean the Kingdom?"

"What will she do when Christ fails to appear? How long will people wait on promises? How long will she be able to maintain control with blame and the sword? How long will the country - the world - look the other way while she plays conqueror and Queen over a German city?" His temper was rising with his voice.

"Then why do you stay? If you think she is a false prophet why do you continue to do her bidding?"

"I have my reasons. You might say it is love that keeps me here."

"But not love for the Prophetess."

An almost imperceptible scowl flitted across his face as I said her title.

"No, her you cannot even tolerate, can you?"

"You love that she gives you what you truly want." I could feel my temper rising. "The chance to cleanse the world with fire."

"How dare you attempt to read me as she once did!"

"That is why they would not let you become a Priest wasn't it?" I must stop, I knew I must, yet I could not stop the words from coming, an internal passion pushed me onward to spill months of time and effort into that one truth. "They saw your malevolence and it terrified them."

He stood, is face now livid with emotion, striking the table hard with his fist. "That was not why I was expelled!"

"Why then?"

"Because I believed!"

"In vengeance!"

"In God! They only believed in religion!"

His eyes flashed fierce and dangerous, as Heathcliff on that final night. We stood silent for a moment, I could see the heave of his chest, feel the pounding of my own heart. Without fully knowing how it had occurred, I found myself locked in his embrace. My arms responded of their own accord, for I am certain, had my head been consulted, they would not have done as they did. I could feel a fire burning in his flesh. An inferno threatening to consume me. His embrace tightened. Within me that which had only been awakened now blazed with roaring flame and terror. Terror for that rational part of me that still lingered and begged resist. But my body had forgotten its master. Du Beauchene rested his forehead against my neck, raising it slightly the his mouth almost touched my ear.

"Je me dis: Qu'elle est belle! et bizarrement fraîche!Le souvenir massif, royale et lourde tour,La couronne, et son coeur, meurtri comme une pêche,Est mûr, comme son corps, pour le savant amour." he whispered.

My knees buckled beneath me. I gripped the body entwined around mine tightly. A strange smoke, swirling like incense, wrapped my brain like his dark curls wrapping around my fingers. His mouth sought mine. In a moment I would be lost. My mind was almost blank, a slave surrendering to the impulses to the body. An image flashed through my mind, a final attempt by reason to win the day. Of dry, chapped lips on a summers day, of Roger smirking haughtily. I pulled back from Du Beauchene's lips as they almost brushed my own. The motion was so slight as to almost seem teasing. He again attempted, but once more I drew back that he only just missed.

The bridge where his forehead met his eyes nestled once more into my neck. I felt his lips tenderly press against the bend. "No," he whispered, now pulling himself from the embrace. "It must wait until after the wedding night."

He released me, "Go. Do not come again. I will not be able to stop myself twice."

I hurried off into the late evening. I could not go home. Without looking I knew how I must appear, pale and distracted, as a woman greatly disturbed of mind - in truth that was what I was - I could not allow myself to be seen in such a state. How might I even hope to excuse what I, myself, could not begin to understand? When had that Mephisto gained such influence over me? That I might be in danger of losing myself to him? I could now clearly see every step, every move, every careful calculation he had taken designed to draw me in to him so slowly I had not even noticed it until I was almost lost. Whatever devil was in me that sought union with his own seemed to have been temporarily exorcised. But that which had done it was almost more shameful to contemplate. For it was not the man I had agreed to one day call "husband" who had revived my mind, but the one I had left behind. But he had not left me. It was he who had made my heart vulnerable, he who had wrenched open the lock I guarded so carefully, he who had first tempted me - and like a house left open a thief had come in the night to try to claim what lay within. My heart beat strong within me as I walked along. A drop of water splashed upon my nose. Then another on my cheek. Suddenly it seemed water drops were coming from everywhere. I was far afield by now and there was no shelter to be found but for a large oak tree. I sat beneath it, my back against the trunk, hugging my knees to my nose. In my mind I kept repeating what had happened in that workshop until exhaustion and the gentle drumming of the rain lulled me to sleep.

It was dark when I awoke. I listened for the rain but heard none. Venturing out of my shelter I wondered how much time had passed. By now they would be worried I had not returned. I began the long walk to the town, boots squelching through the softened ground. Then I saw it in the distance: the thin red salamander snaking its way to the church through the town. The Sanguinem Agni.

I fought to climb up upon the slick roof of the building to peer inside. The entire church was filled with men and women, all kneeling. Before them what must have been a hundred knelt as Veena applied the final crosses to their foreheads. Then she called the Mueller brothers to her. I dug in my bag for the artificial eardrum. The rubber was slick from the water which stuck to my hands, it threatened to slip from my grasp. With both hands I shoved it in and placed my ear against the glass.

"...has commanded that you assassinate the Mayor of Munster that His Kingdom's reign may finally begin." I heard Veena say.

This was as bad as could possibly be. How were Rodger and I to stop a hundred and prevent the mayor's assassination? I had to think fast, by morning they would be off. I watched from the roof as they left the church in their procession, waited as the lights were lit and then extinguished in their houses. Watched as Veena, once more, followed Menning to his house. Only then did I slowly slide myself off of the roof. She was beginning the plan earlier than expected. There was only one thing to do; I had to buy us more time. I ran to the stables, praying that if they did have a stablehand on duty that he might be a lazy one.

There the man lay, his head resting against an ancient looking tack still straddling the sawhorse, his mouth hanging open. I quietly shut the door. Now, what was I actually to do. I opened the stable doors one after another and tried all I could to make the horses move. But they stubbornly resisted excepting a spirited pony. It was only when I had gotten to the final stable that I realized my error. Two of the stalls stood empty. The Mueller brothers. There was no time. I had to leave now if I had any hope of catching them. I knew what had to be done. I opened the door to the tack room and silently slipped the lazily burning oil lamp from where it hung on a nail just beside the door. I ran as fast as I dared to the stable furthest the sleeping man. Taking a deep breath I said a prayer and threw the lamp into a pile of hay. It smashed open. Blue flame flowed over the hay. The horses whinnied and took flight. Grabbing a broom I shoved the bristles into the flames, all the while being repulsed by the fire. The broom ignited. I ran with it to the next stable and the next, setting each alight. But I must do more, something that would ensure the horses scatter as far as possible. Saltpetre. I remembered the saltpetre beds behind the workship, they had been made with fertilizer which contained... nitrates! Yes! And if they were using the manure for saltpetre manufacture than they would not risk it getting wet and leeching the neccessary elements into the ground. If I was correct... I quickly found a large open shed filled with horse manure. I would only have moments. I took a few deep breaths and prepared to run. One more. I threw the broom into the shed and ran. I had just cleared the outskirts of the stables when I heard the explosion.

I ran through the woods, the path now so familiar to me I might have done it blindfolded. My heaving chest burned within me, screaming in protest that I might stop a moment and rest. But I could not rest. I cleared the woods heading to toward the farm. I pounded on the door.

"Wot do you want this late?" a gruff voice grumbled loudly from the other side. I could hear the sound of a heavy key scraping in the huge iron lock. The door swung open revealing a portly old farmer lantern in hand. "Now wot is it..." his voice trailed off as he saw me.

"I need Bells. Now."

"I'll get him saddled."

"There's no time." I looked back to where Gerizim was. A pale orange glow lit the night sky. "I'll do it."

The farmer trundled beside me to the stable. I slid the bridle over Bells' head and, less then a minute later was tightening the cinches on his saddle. In one fluid motion I swept onto the saddle and kicked Bells gently with my heel. It was all the goading he needed. We were off like a shot down the road.

I had rode hard for almost an hour before I realized I was not alone. I slowed Bells, listening intently. Had I imagined it? No, there were definitely hoofbeats coming from ahead of me. Whoever it was they were riding like mad. Perhaps the Mueller brothers had not gone to Munster as I had thought and were now returning. How might I explain myself? The creature was closing fast now. There was nowhere in the vast open fields I could hide. I would have to tell them there had been a fire, that I was sent to fetch them. No. It was only one horse coming. Suddenly, over the rise a large midnight black creature appeared, a white star shining upon his forehead. The rider pulled up sharply as he spotted me in the road ahead. It was Roger!


	28. Chapter 28

This book has been finished. If you wish to read the final few chapters please contact the Author who will be happy to email them to you.


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